Shifting Gears

My father believed that life could flourish even when surrounded by cold concrete sidewalks, black asphalt roads and the row upon row of silent houses that sat on stiff but detached cobbled stone shoulders, staring blankly into space as the days went by. This was Manduriao, Iloilo, my first home. The noiseless streets never drove me away. It only meant that there was more space for laughter and interesting chatter. It meant more space for my dreams, dreams that were expanding and multiplying. It meant more time seeing what else I could when everything seemed so familiar.

Piercing Silence

Our house was still the same way it has been after two months when I last left it. I stood at the gate for a moment. I needed a breather.

My mother welcomed me with a smile. I did not smile back. It was not the time for us to exchange our happiness. I still had to unpack the bad news I have been carrying since I left my dorm.

“Ma, I pierced my lips,” I told her guiltily while showing the month-old hole under my lips. It tore her heart when she learned that my rebellious dream had already come true. She gazed at it and said nothing.

Stale Custard Cakes

The night was starting to bother me. I couldn’t sleep it away. I was shaking violently now. My nerves were tense and I kept on pressing my cheek against the edge of my bed. I tried to apply pressure using a dirty chopstick I had found among the pile of junk scattered across my bedroom floor. Where is my goddamn Mefenamic Acid?!

I wanted to rid myself of the throbbing pain that was eating the sanity out of me. How many times did my father remind me to brush my teeth after every meal? The stool my father had repaired overnight when I was twelve was very tempting. Throw me! Bang me! Destroy me! I reached my arms out but my hands were back to my cheek pounding it with as much pressure as it can give.

A Memory of a Bus Ride

For quite some time, I have been a traveler of the road that connected Surigao Del Sur and Davao City. I have lived most of my life in the city streets, but occasionally visit Surigao particularly on Christmas breaks, summer vacations, and on dates that the whole family decides to have a reunion. Sometimes, the death anniversary of my great grandmother was a reason enough to visit Surigao. These visits had become a habit of my family when we left Surigao during my early childhood.

To Build A Fire

When I was sixteen at the old house, I used to sit on our wooden chair behind her and watch how she built fire with kerosene, wood, and pieces of folded paper. She would bend low enough, reaching for the fireplace, and I could see her spine arching downwards like a bamboo on a windy day, while behind her white head where I could not see much what happened, a light-blue smoke rose up to the sooted roof along with some ashes flying for escape through the slits on our wall.

This House On Buttercup Street

Just like what I used to do every ordinary night, here I am again — taking slow paces towards my final destination… the 49th house on Buttercup Street. No matter how tedious my day at the university had been or how many barbecues and lemon squares I had eaten during all those foodie sessions with my boyfriend, the story always has the same ending: me going to the direction illuminated by an orange light post — and tonight is not an exception. Other people would normally love the idea of finally going home after such a long day but I often wish that the sun would not give way to the moon. I never want to go home…

I finally arrived at this particular house on Buttercup Street and as always, closing the red gate was such a difficult task. It meant that I am now in my dreaded place, away from the world that I never wanted to leave. As always, the sight was totally unwelcoming… Like every ordinary night, all the lights are turned off and if not for the flickering light from the television, any stranger would easily mistake the place as desolate. “Home again,” I sighed.