Chasing Heathcliff by May Navarro

The sun hid in layers of gray clouds but Kate’s face still felt flushed. The grass felt thick under her seat, the soft green blades folding meekly at her bare feet. She adjusted herself under the tree on a small hill inside the memorial park. This was their place, Mario and her, this seemingly small mountain you can look out and view tombstones jutting out the grounds and take a peek of a pond with brackish water. A row of white and lilac flowers lined the small barrier on a walkway near the pond, out of place in this melancholy environment. She looked at her watch, it was almost six’o clock in the morning. He was late. She rummaged through her bag, feeling her way through the mess inside and took out a book of poems of Pablo Neruda she got from a secondhand bookstore. She ran her hand on through its yellowed pages stopping that urge to look at her watch again, a glance that would confirm the minutes were passing by like a whizzing train on the tracks, snatching away seconds they were together. The words of Neruda were not registering on her mind, only a blur of stanzas on this early morning. From the hill, she can see joggers on the bridgeway near the pond, snow-haired men in their shorts, running up the bridge huffing from exhaustion while eager young boys ran past them, boisterous and loud.

She strained to hear the sound of his scooter idling beside her car.  But he has not arrived yet. Mario has been distant lately and his reply about meeting here had been curt. She wondered what was wrong. Was he miffed again that he saw her having lunch in the cafeteria with Lance, her dapper officemate or that she hesitated to introduce him to her boss when he accompanied her in the lobby while the company driver got her car from the parking lot.

But didn't their eyes meet when he cleaned the windows in the lobby yesterday and she smiled regardless of who saw it or didn't flinch when he brushed his arms on the side of her leg when he took out the garbage from under her office table.Kate knew it would be complicated. But she didn't expect it to be this way. Daily life occurrences that seemed trivial were interpreted differently. An uptight glance could be interpreted as a snub or a slight hesitation could mean awkwardness to be seen with him. Because theirs was a different kind of fairy tale. it was odd and skewed because when did the princess loved a pauper? In fairy tales, the man always had a castle and rescued the poor damsel not the other way around.It was a fairy tale that started innocently. She was waiting in the lobby then for her friend Cara to catch up on her latest escapade in Boracay when he arrived.

“He’s late” Mario had said while wiping the glass wall in front of her. She was sitting on a small couch checking her messages on her phone.

“Excuse me?”she asked confused on this sudden intrusion.

“He’s late po, Mam” he said finally facing her. She had seen him, the new maintenance guy, walking around the building. He was dusky and had these dark, yet smiling eyes. His smile spread on his face, genuine and kind, lighting it up. He had this easy stance about him that he carried well.

“I’m waiting for a friend” she said.

“Ah..still, he is still late” he had said.

She smiled and her eyes met his.

It started there, almost every day somehow she found him there on the time she was waiting for her driver. They would talk about trivial stuff, his growing up years in the Visayas and his father’s fancy for duck pochero. She found herself looking forward to their short talks until he asked her for her number because he needed to consult her about something in his contract with his employment agency.His first text didn't mention anything about his contract but said that he enjoyed talking to her. When Kate received it, she smiled and wasn’t able to concentrate on the files mounted on her desk for almost an hour.

They've been seeing each other for a couple of weeks now, secret meetings that nobody knew even her friends. Because what would she tell them, I’m dating the janitor in the office but don’t worry he really has nice eyes and a great physique. They would have been aghast. Kate, are you really that desperate? they would ask.

But still this morning she was worried. Mario seems to be avoiding her, much less talking to her. Was it because she didn't acknowledge him in front of her bosses the other day like he was a stranger? He ddidn'ttext her this week and she texted him instead and asked him to meet her here, an abrupt Okay was what she got.

The sun was rising, radiating pink and orange streaks in the clouds. He was late. She can still remember their first meeting on this hill. She felt like a school girl on a first date, dressed in black jogging pants and pink t-shirt. She was awkward and excited and he was there, waiting. sitting under a tree and smiling.  Mario radiated this strong, masculine appeal yet kind. She liked that the color of his skin was a startling contrast to her fair skin and cheeks that blushes easily.  Meeting his eyes had almost always unhinged her. It was as if those eyes have seen her and loved her before. However, this gentle side also seemed to attract other women too like the other secretaries which she hated.

The sun’s rays have begun to get stronger, slightly piercing at her skin, mottling it with pink. So she laid down on the cool grass on the side of the hill, looking up the sky. At that angle, the blue sky looked like a ceiling of clouds, encompassing her entire view leaving her in awe at this grandeur of nature. It made her forget about him for a moment then she suddenly remembered a line in Wuthering Heights. “I have not broken your heart, you have broken it, and in breaking it, you have broken mine”. He’s not coming, Kate told herself. She stood up, the damp dew in the grass staining at her jogging pants. She walked along the cobbled bricks on the way to her car.

The realization left a vast hollowness in her being. It replaced the usual longing she had for him, a longing that sometimes felt like a wound that throbs and stings with jealousy. A longing so palpable, she can’t concentrate on anything else.

She shielded her eyes from the intense rays of the sun and continued walking to the car. Had he finally accepted it? she thought. That we were different and cannot be together or should not be together? Has he? But how can I accept it? When being in his arms and his breath on my hair made me happy. Is it true about his affair with a new secretary who arrived in the office flaunting her curves, not a pretty face but saunters with enough confidence, you want to believe she was pretty. Is that true? She wanted to ask him. Was it easy to switch off love that easy? The new model has arrived and you are relegated to the back.

Then she heard the sound of a scooter stopping near her car. It was Mario. He took off his helmet and walked towards her.  She didn’t look at him and tried to walk past him. He quickly grabbed her arm.

“I’m sorry…” he said.

“You shouldn’t have to come…I was leaving anyway” she said then tugged her arm away from his hand.

He was silent.
She opened the car door and paused halfway.

“Is it true about her?” she asked, finally her chance to ask him.

He didn't utter a word.

“You shouldn’t have come… “she said again. “I would have understood, it was fun while it lasted anyway” she said and threw her bag inside.

“We’re not the same, you know that right?” he suddenly retorted.

“And you’re the same?” she shot back. “I know, Mario…..that’s why I have to leave”

“But still it’s different between us…it’s different” he protested.

She paused going inside the car again.

It was indeed different like their social status didn't matter when they are together. She wanted to feel elated but she felt like her chest was being squeezed slightly.

“But that’s not enough isn't it? There are still a lot of girls to discover.  Besides, she really is sexy”

“But what I feel for you is different.. you don’t know how hard this is for me, to be on this poor end…It is torture seeing you in the office and knowing I can never match what you have or be with you and not be judged…” he said.

“So it’s not enough then, what we have?” she asked.

“I don’t know.. I’m not sure” he said. His eyes dropped not meeting hers.

She was silent, her eyes darting to the dried roses on one of the tombstones.

“Let’s just forget it then, forget this, forget us so we can both go on with our lives” she said abruptly.

She closed car door, rummaged through her bag to find her keys and started the engine and sped away. The road was clear that morning with only a handful of jeepneys at the roadside. But Kate felt like she was driving on autopilot, like she wasn't there, only a shell of someone driving. She relied on instinct like she had an internal GPS navigating her way to one of her refuge. She turned off the ignition and sat inside the car. The mass was still going on. She felt relief. There were only two places she would go to think when things felt muddled, the church and a bookstore. Today this was her haven.

She distracted herself by watching families milling outside the church, toddlers being chased by harried mothers, young ladies chatting in their coral-colored skinny jeans. Everything felt the same, everything looked normal on the outside then why did it feel different for her. Like she wasn't the same person she was earlier, like she just witnessed a gruesome crime. Then she heard a knock on the glass. It was Mario, he followed her

She lowered the window. “What?” she asked with irritation but her heart began to beat fast.

“Can I come in?” he asked. His sad eyes reflected a brownish shade in the sun. She can smell cigarette from his breath.

She opened the door in the passenger seat. He sat down and looked across the church parking lot slowly being filled up.

“I’m sorry ” he said then turned and looked at her.

“I’m getting tired, Mario. I can’t have you locking me out if you feel like it.. It’s too much..Besides there’ll be other women and I don’t know if I can take that” she said.

“But they won’t be you…they won’t make me feel this way, I’m sure” he said.

Like what? she wanted to ask, like other people fade away in the background when I’m talking to you?

“I don’t want to be just one of your girls, Mario.”she said.

“I know. But I can’t offer you anything, Kate..I’m not rich..your folks and friends won’t accept me…maybe the saying was wrong maybe love doesn't conquer everything “

And the fairy tales were true, she wanted to say. The maiden only marries the prince not the pauper.

“Maybe you’re right, Mario, maybe love doesn't conquer everything” she replied and looked out, noting the brown leaves being tossed lightly by the wind in the sidewalk.

They turned silent, letting the chatter of the churchgoers fill the car.

“Yet, I’m still here…”, Mario said softly, looking at her.

She looked back, meeting the same eyes that always unhinged her. The same eyes that often reflected the same longing she had for him.

He took her hand and kissed it. She didn't pull away.

“You always make me feel like I’m something more…something better..” he said.

“You are.. Mario” she said, still looking at him.

“People won’t understand what we have, Kate…”

“I don’t care…let’s have this while we can…this thing what we have, maybe it would last, maybe it wouldn't but I know it doesn't happen often, let’s cherish it while we can..please” she said.

She wanted to say, let’s bask in it even if it feels like lightning that engulfed us and seared us without warning.

He took her in his arms. Kate leaned her head on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.

“I can’t stand you with Lance” Mario said.

“And I can’t stand you with her” she replied.

“She’s not you.. I ended it with her..It’s not the same, I kept seeing your face when I’m with her” he said.

She looked up and smiled, a burst of warmth expanded through her heart.

Heathcliff has finally come home.

Sweet and Fragile By May Navarro

Maybe I should have had that crepe yesterday.

Thoughts of this thin, delicate pastry drizzled in chocolate sauce flitted through my mind as I was driving the long highway to Molino. It was mid-afternoon and the sun shone warmly on the ornate gates and the expansive land that will witness the rise of new gated communities. The road leading here was quite unfamiliar to me, every intersection, every hump on the street, every stoplight stop.  I held on the steering wheel tightly while rampaging SUVs overtook my car, irritated perhaps by my tentative pace.

My husband had no idea I took this on this impulsive field trip, leaving my five year old son, Danny to our self-absorbed teen helper who sported an earpiece like a call center agent. Our human “cyborg”, my brother-in-law calls her was in charge of the house for the moment. I had no choice, Nessa, my high school friend had been insistent on her text messages that morning, “Please I have to see you, Grace, please” so I took on this trip.

After a couple of wrong turns on the expansive road, I finally found the fastfood chain Nessa was referring to and parked the car near an unsmiling guard and went inside. I pushed the door open and was surprised by a gust of cool air. I approached the counter and ordered orange juice then paused for a moment while the cashier donning the practiced smile of fastfood crew waited like an expectant puppy. “That’s all, miss” I finally said. She almost sighed.  I got my juice and sat near the clear glass pane overlooking the parking lot. Then just as I was finishing my orange drink, I noticed a tricycle stop near the entrance. Nessa came out assisted by a dusky middle-aged woman. She held on to her cane which strained at her weight while her each step was precarious.  She had a stroke last year after her 38^th birthday.  It left half of her body was paralyzed at the onset but now, she can walk with a cane, thanks to therapy. She had shorter hair now. Her sister had cut her thick locks, snipping through it haphazardly after the first week of almost dragging her half-limp body to the sink.  But Nessa looked almost the same, her large hoop earrings was still there, her black blouse fitting snugly at her thinner  frame and she was wearing  shorts even if her left leg bore traces of sagging skin like a wrinkled hide. Still the same Nessa.

We sat near the clear glass pane while her assistant got the food. No words were exchanged in the beginning as she only dabbed at her eyes and looked outside. Then she began talking about Ramon, her husband. He had been running “errands” for a family with a rather disreputable background.  She had asked him to stop but he told her that he had no choice, her therapy costs a lot of money and their son, Eric was in high school.

“He also doesn’t want do it with me anymore,  Grace, he claims he’s too tired” she said.”But I can still do it, I can and I’ve read about it, the study claims that this can even help stimulate parts of your body.” She enthused like a child rationalizing eating a lot of candy before dinner.

I tried not to look incredulous after hearing this and looked outside, observing the grumpy guard circling the other cars. We had never discussed our very private lives this way and I wondered if this was the reason I was here, she wasn’t getting some?

“Maybe he’s just tired, Nessa.. you know our husbands, they work really hard, long hours on the road, in the office...maybe, one day he’ll surprise you” I said, hoping that would comfort her.

“It’s not like him…he was always so into it…” she said then tears came again dropping by her cheeks. She dabbed them quickly.”If there’s someone else, Grace…if there is, I will  leave him..”she said.

Then what? I wanted to ask. How can you support yourself, your therapy and your son? When you can even barely walk. It was a scathing thought but it was the truth.

Then I looked at her, this woman who before her stroke had taken two or three jobs just to make ends meet because her husband languished in a part- time job in an automotive company had transformed drastically, she was not the same person I knew then. The woman prior to the illness was indomitable, one who didn't hesitate to take on jobs with night shifts to cover their household needs.  I heard she was lacking sleep for days before the stroke happened. Now, she has become this timid, needy woman I barely recognized.

But I still tried to understand her condition.  Maybe it’s the loss of control, the loss of the power of even putting one feet in front of the other unassisted, the loss of independence, the sense of being trapped that led her this way.

Nessa looked out and started dabbing at her eyes again.

“What really sucks about this, Grace...is not being able to care for your son…he was sick the other night and I couldn’t even go out and buy him medicine…”she said  ”I know he’s hanging on, but he said that if I decide to leave his father, he will come with me..besides, I still have the rental income from some apartments my parents gave me so maybe that would do” she continued.

“What about Ramon, he wouldn’t give you up that easily especially his son?” I said.

“But he has given up on me, Grace. Sometimes, he becomes furious, demanding me to walk without a cane, asking me why is it taking so long. Why am I not well yet?  Are the damn therapies working or not? But I’m trying, Grace. I wish I could walk sooner and move faster but I can’t.”

That asshole, I wanted to say. But part of me can’t blame him. Maybe patience is not one of his admirable traits. Maybe he’s tired of keeping the family afloat, tired of being the “man” in the household. Nessa was staring out on the clear glass pane again. She didn’t touch the burger I ordered for her and put it in her bag.

“Can you do me a favor, Grace?” she asked.

‘Sure” I said, hoping she was not borrowing money again since we’re still paying off our credit card debts.

“Can you bring me home” she finally said.

 I brought the car to the entrance of the fastfood and she insisted on seating in front, struggling to get in so if I adjusted the seat to give her more room.  On a fork on a road, she pointed me to the left when she was telling me to turn right like her sense of direction was off but I didn't tell her.

The small village her family stayed at lacked the grandeur of the others I passed by earlier. Small houses, some rickety and worn with whizzing tricycles passing by. Half-naked men inside their houses sat on a table with bottles of cerveza at this early afternoon. We arrive at her house alongside an undeveloped land, a large field with tall cogon grasses. Her dusky assistant opened her gate with peeling paint and grated a high shrill when it swung open. Inside, a large stereo was stationed near the door. It was an unfinished house, parts of the ceiling were bare exposing the wooden beams and the back portion had thin pieces of lumber in a heap. I noticed the picture of her parents near the dining room. Her mother had been a strong-willed woman, I remember, striking but not conventionally beautiful while her father had an odd sense of humor but still a good man. I remember them because they had to accompany me to my house in high school when my father had one of his tantrums and screamed expletives on the phone for my coming home late from a swimming excursion, one that included Nessa.

I studied her parents’ portrait closely then Nessa asked me to sit on the dining area, a step away from the sala with the large stereo. She talked about how her son Eric had been encouraging her to walk without the cane and had been very patient with her. She dabbed her eyes again.

“I don’t know how I can still go on being this way” she said, looking down. “Sometimes, I just want to give up”

I looked at her slumped frame and moved toward her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Do it for Eric, then…get better for him..forget about Ramon for a moment and concentrate on getting better for your son” I said, wanting to shake her off her stupor, her wallowing. I wanted to tell her to get up, dammit, get up and be the woman I've always known, arrogant and unbreakable.

But I couldn't. Who am I to speak of her that way when I don’t have not experienced the sudden helplessness of being unable to walk, to take care of yourself, the isolation of being in a body that won’t cooperate and the creeping fear that you may never recover.

We sat down silently while she was searched her bag for more tissues.

“How’s Danny?” she finally asked. The only time she did ask of my son.

“He’s doing well, still has OT and Speech therapy but we’re getting better” I said.

“That’s good” she said looking at the picture on the wall.

Danny, my  five year old has autism and was left with our “cyborg of a” maid at the moment.

Then my phone rang, it was my husband. I put it on silent.

 I’ll be going soon, I told her and looked at my watch. I stood up then rummaged through my bag, I gave her a pendant of St. Benedict, something I got in our church and a small purse with tufted petals on it.

“It’s lovely, thank you” she said and smiled. It was the only smile I saw that day.

“You take care of yourself, okay?” I tell her, enveloping her and unconsciously feeling the flabby skin on her left arm.

I wanted to stay and comfort her more but my son was waiting for me. I promised to visit her again and planted a kiss on her cheek before going out. She was still sitting when I left and dabbing at her eyes.

I went back to the car and cruised through the once unfamiliar road and rushed along the expressway, pressing hard at the gas pedal when the roads were clear then inched my way through the toll gate lined with slow-moving vehicles. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel while waiting for cars in front to move forward. I changed stations constantly, irritated if a DJ’s chatter droned on.  Finally, I arrived home and called back my husband when I opened the door. My son was jubilant when he saw me, jumping up and down and began pulling at my hair when I hugged him. He brushed at my hair and smelled it again and again. Our human “cyborg” sat near the TV, her mouth agape while texting on her phone.

That night when my husband walked through the door, I gave him a tight hug.

“Missed me?” he joked.  His hair was a tangle of curls and his eyes had a darker shade below it.

I nodded. I didn't tell him about Nessa, He wouldn't have liked driving myself all the way to Molino. His protectiveness can be both endearing and exasperating sometimes.

“How was your day?” I asked, taking off his polo. My son was watching television, amazed while Tom chased Jerry incessantly.

“Busy, as usual, Doctor Rodriguez went to a seminar so I had to cover his shift” he said. “I called you earlier, where were you?”

“I went to the mall, the music was loud inside, the phone was in my bag” I said while tossing shredded parts of a magazine Danny ripped apart in the thrash.

Then my son began jumping up and down the bed, excited with the sudden chase of his favorite cartoon characters.

“Can’t you ask him to stop?” my husband asked while changing into a faded t- shirt.

“Calm down, Danny. Hey, stop it!”  I exclaimed, restraining him with my arms.

He struggled but my arms came loose and he began jumping again.

My husband looked at me.

“ How do you expect me to rest with all this ruckus? I’m so tired from work and..wow,  look at this mess”  he said while pointing at the jumble of toy soldiers, dinosaurs, cars, stuffed animals scattered on the bed. Then he walked out of the room.

I sat down while the bed motioned up and down. Danny screamed with glee.

That night, with the room in order, my husband and son slept beside me, I struggled to sit up. Danny had his hands on my hair, he always liked to grab it and smell it before going to sleep. Finally, I was able to wrench it out of his grasp. I went to the other room and opened the computer. I logged on my Facebook account and scrolled down the page. An image of my high school classmate with her child took my attention. They were smiling and her daughter was looking straight at the camera. My son always looked sideways when taking a picture, his gaze out of focus.  I turned off the computer and began reading a book on autism interventions. Then I heard whisperings at the back of the house, I looked out the window and saw our help, giggling while talking on the phone. She was sitting among the plants like a grinning dwarf. I was tempted to tell her to go to sleep but I slumped back on my seat. Maybe we all deserve a break.

The next day, my husband was in a better mood.

“I’m sorry about last night” he said when I met him in the kitchen.

I went to him and adjusted his skewed white coat.

“You’re just tired, I’m sorry the room was a mess” I said looking at him. He had been working so hard lately and I sometimes worry about his lack of rest. I felt guilty for not keeping things in order, for not being the perfect domesticated stereotype of a wife.

He nodded then kissed my cheek before heading out. Danny was still asleep.

 After bringing Danny to school, I came back the house and arranged the stack of bills to be paid that morning. Then I got a text from one of the parents in my son’s school. Lisa, one of my friends there was in the hospital.

She had been complaining of nose bleeding last week and was rushed to the emergency room twice. Each time she went home, the bleeding started again. She was in and out of the hospital and no findings have been finalized even after a series of tests and ultrasounds.

I went to the hospital while my son was in school. Arriving at the elevator, I noticed the tub of hand sanitizer near the door and remembered why I hated hospitals. The elevator doors swung open and I went inside. Then a gangly male nurse with bangs like a Korean pop boy band member suddenly held his hand between the elevator doors and pushed in a wheel chair with a frail old man in a hospital gown. The man had a wistful look on his face like he was imagining that he was somewhere else.  Any place is better than this I thought. I sighed and gripped my basket of oranges tighter. When the elevator opened, I carefully went past the older gentleman in dreamland and almost bumped into a young, balding doctor who was putting on his rubber gloves as he rushed off. I turned left and walked through the empty corridor, looking for Lisa’s room. I found the room number and walked inside. The same doctor was there and Lisa was on the bed sitting. Two women were beside her, one was taking out tissue from a box and the other holding a small metal container standing near her. Lisa had her hair pulled up with stray strands on her face. She was wearing a thin blue hospital gown with her bare legs hanging from the bed. I put down my oranges and looked at one surreal scene.

Lisa was dripping blood from the nose and she was wiping it with tissue one woman was giving to her. She was brushing it off and tossing it on an empty metal tray. Then I noticed a small metal container under the side of the bed with a pool of stark red blood on it. I looked the other way.

The TV was open, high on top across the bed. It was playing an afternoon teleserye, the rail thin female protagonist in a confrontation with another. Their screaming surrounded the room as the doctor and nurses scrambled to check Lisa’s blood pressure.

Lisa barely noticed I was there as the doctor examined her. She complained that she can hardly breathe and the doctor suggested hooking her up in an oxygen tank. Then the tissue ran out and one of the women had to buy more in the hospital’s pharmacy. I volunteered to take her place but Lisa barely looked at me, she was busy soaking the tissues with bright scarlet and tossing it off. I tried not to flinch.

She had been in the hospital for days but still no word what her illness was. All the tests didn’t confirm anything. But she was still dripping blood. I wondered about her son who was almost about my son’s age and who has autism too. He is with some of her friends in her house together with Lisa’s ageing mother who she also takes care of. Her husband is still in Dubai, a computer programmer.

I always liked Lisa. She’s a gregarious woman with a sense of humor to match, telling stories of her son’s tantrums in public with an easy smile and mock action for effect. She was always jolly in the face of humiliation, a natural occurrence for mothers with a child with autism.  She was my fellow soldier in this battle with a relentless enemy who strikes without warning and has no strong identifiable weakness. Now, my fellow soldier is incapacitated like a bloodied comrade in battle.  Even without saying it, I know the worry she feels for her son as she refused to be taken to another hospital far from their house. And I wonder if anything happened to her, who would carry such dedication she willed taking care for her son, the same question that often kept me awake at night when my son’s fate in the future haunts me.

Suddenly, Lisa complained that she had more difficulty breathing. They called in a more senior doctor. He arrived carrying a backpack and was still wearing his street clothes on. With his moustache and brash manner he looked more like a goon in a Bong Revilla movie than a doctor. He got his stethoscope out and asked some questions to the younger doctor and pondered on it. He looked at the floor, looking dumbfounded. I was aghast at his seeming inability to spur action for my friend. Do something, dammit! I wanted to say, are you going to stand there and let her gush blood all day and night.  Get her well. Now. Please.

Maybe with no other recourse, this doctor inadvertently decided to bring her to the operating room.  And while the nurses rushed out to prepare for the procedure, more people arrived for a visit and hovered around Lisa like spectators in a gruesome crime. They meant well but I left shortly after.

Driving back to the house, the sun was setting and its subdued orange rays almost blinded me. I put my left hand over my eyes to shield it.  The traffic was starting to build toward home but I turned the other way and went to the direction of the mall instead. But the cars here were almost on a stand still. I abruptly stopped when the car in front signaled a brake light then turned off the radio. No need for Sting’s sentimental Englishman in New York today.

Cocooned in traffic, the scenes I saw that week replayed like a commercial in a jarring loop. Nessa’s uneven gait, her wrinkled left leg, Lisa’s bloodied nose, red-streaked tissues, the small metal tray with deep red liquid on it.

I leaned back my head on the seat.

Nessa sometimes has seizures, I remember Ramon telling me when we saw each other last Christmas. She was buying presents for Eric that time. It happened earlier that month and the doctor was unsure if it will happen again. He wanted to appear nonchalant but the worry altered his voice. I didn't mention this to Nessa.

Meanwhile, Lisa’s husband will be coming home soon, one of the women in the hospital told me. He will be there when Lisa will be brought to the ICU. He will care of their son while Lisa is recovering, leaving his job in Dubai and taking care of the hospital bills.

And amidst all these, I will continue on, cramming errands in two and a half hours while my son is in school, paying the bills, going to the grocery, folding clothes. Or if time permits, wander around the mall, gawk at store displays with bright, smart dresses that won’t fit me anymore or envy women with better skin on derma clinic billboards. Or maybe I’ll sit by a coffeeshop with a raunchy paperback on hand and watch harried mothers chase their toddlers around the mall or commiserate with retired people shuffling along.  Sitting there, I know I’ll find time to worry about my husband’s uneven hours at work and the effectiveness of Danny’s therapies.

I turned the car to the parking lot. I cancelled Danny’s therapy that day and turned off my phone. Briskly, I walked to my favorite haunt, a coffeeshop with a French- sounding name. I could almost see the luscious crepe embedded with mango bits and drizzled in chocolate syrup and soft whipped cream in front of me.

What color is the snowman? by May Navarro

(This is an essay I wrote two years ago. This is for all the mother's out there this Mother's Day month)

My kid never seems to tire asking me this question over and over. He can’t get it out of his head lately after watching a winter season on video. I've answered him a thousand times and should be irritated by this constant intrusion yet I am grateful.  My son diagnosed with autism is trying to communicate. It is a rainbow in the uncharted world of autism, a treasured joy for a mother like me.  Motherhood has not exactly been a walk in the park because having a child with autism has been a road of challenging discoveries. At almost 5 years old, he is unlike regular kids who are gregarious in words. He’s still not conversant, mostly employing repetitive language. His tantrums due to high sensitivity to certain sounds have left me high strung most of the time.

Despite the struggle, I wouldn't trade the experience of having him for anything.  Yes, there are have been moments when I wanted my old carefree self back. But still, I wouldn't exchange it for a fraction of aimless youth because being a mother has carved facets of me that I haven’t discovered before like my ability to lovingly endure even in the most trying circumstances. It may not be the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me but it is one of the significant highlights of my life. I am still awed by the intense love I feel for my child, the unwavering certainty that I will explore undiscovered paths to make him well. They’re right you can only understand your mother until you have a child of your own. You can only understand the depth of her love when you’re holding your son’s hand. I wish I had been more accepting of my mother and fully appreciated all the sacrifices she has made for me because looking back her own motherhood journey was quite a challenge too.

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When I was nine years old I would often wonder why my ponytail was always crooked and why I often carried blotched patches of powder on my face like a half-made clown. I also wondered why my Mom was always in a hurry, yelling at us to hurry up while impatiently packing our lunch boxes. That time I didn't realize how hard a single mom of three kids was on top of being a university physician and what a sight she must have been, a lady driver who revved her raucous brown Volkswagen on the provincial streets where only a handful of women had their own car.  In the far-flung city in the North during the eighties a separated women whisking three kids to school was fodder for gossip. She wasn’t from that place, didn’t know the dialect very well, only known as the estranged wife of Mr. X.  She was ahead of her time though because nowadays, being separated with kids with a job to boot and slaving through traffic is not eye-popping news anymore.

When you’re the kid it’s easier to judge especially when you’re the recipient of your parents’ separation, when you have to endure the race from home to school and the shuttling back and forth between their houses. I admit, I sorely judged my Mom’s unkempt house and the greasy food she always ordered from the neighborhood carinderia because she didn’t have time to cook. I would often compare it to my Dad’s house, one that had a shiny baluster, the immaculate floors and hot, piping food. The one where my dolls were always neatly lined in one cabinet with encyclopedias I can browse in while waiting for him to arrive, a contrast to the waylaid dolls and komiks in my Mom’s place.

I thought then that maybe my Mom was just untidy like my grandmother complained. But how can she compare herself to my Mom when she always had help around her and my grandfather stood by her no matter what. Like me it was easy to judge my Mom. Moreover, during the angry, confused parts of my childhood, I often thought that my mother didn’t do her job well. She didn’t save her marriage, didn’t clean the house very well, fought with my teachers over my unfinished schoolwork thus, always humiliating me. And now that I’m a mother myself, I painfully realize the incredible sacrifices she endured, the strength she summoned to bring food to the table and the determination to keep a semblance of a family.

As a child of separated parents, my view of motherhood has always been ambivalent. Growing up raised by my father, being a mother was not a priority. The value of a career was given more importance than raising a child. And when I decided to be a stay-at-home mom to my child with autism, my Dad was not especially pleased. For him, it was better to pay someone to take care of my son while I go out to work. Maybe he was right. It has been a struggle financially and I had been tempted many times to go back. But there is an instinct that says I have to be hands-on with the interventions given to my son during these early years. If this was the right choice I don’t know. Besides, I discovered that I am not the corporate raider type and preferred work that offers flexibility to have more time with my son.

So it pains me to hear the word plain housewife, her job, just mothering the kids, often said with a tad of disgust and pity. Though not always directed at me, I still bristle inside. And as a mother, I often wonder do they really know how tough this job really is? I see mothers who are pregnant, some with two kids in tow dodging cars in busy intersections and admire their resilience. It’s not an easy job as I have maneuvered only one kid in a busy mall and I was in the point of distress.  These mothers take care of the kids more than themselves. They prepare meals, rock babies to sleep, wash the clothes and care for their husbands. These moms are the so called plain housewives. If that is plain then that is plain fortitude, a work addressed 24 hours a day, seven days a week without pay and no benefits. Of course, being a working mom is tough, juggling the roles of wife, mother, employee, always tearing themselves up with guilt and stress. But it seems to be given more respect than stay-at-home mothers. However, there should really be no debate on who should be respected more or whose job is harder because motherhood in its entirety is already a formidable undertaking.

            In the reverse turn of events, my mother now judges me. She bugs me about staying at home. I can feel her disappointment because I’m not realizing my full “potential”. Like my father she also mutters about the waste of my expensive education. Now I wonder if spending my time with my son really is a waste of time, if all of my efforts with him can be easily substituted by other people and I’m just fooling myself spending my time at home. When did motherhood become easily qualified? That working at the office is more acceptable now than taking care of your son at home? I always had the impression that it was a matter of choice.

But do I really know if staying at home with my son makes a difference?  I want to claim that it is the right choice but there is no motherhood jury to validate that. I’ve also accepted that I’m now part of the unglamorous side of motherhood because while the crowd of mothers is on their way to work I’m on the opposite side, going the other way, staying at home. While other moms rifle through a mound of paperwork, I’m busy preparing my son’s hot bath. And while their office is an air-conditioned cubicle in a towering building, mine is the insides of a fastfood wiping spaghetti sauce off a child’s chin. While these mothers confidently shop for clothes, shoes and bags, I mentally restrain myself as the blossoming prices of groceries come to mind.

But it is my son who validates this choice; his speech is improving and can feed himself with less assistance. No job promotions or Chanel bags can top that. It is the result of numerous drives to rigorous therapy sessions, consultations with caring therapists, hours of research, and the constant push and initiations to situations he would otherwise fear. It is a delicate balance of firmness and compassion. This is what motherhood is to me right now.

I try not to dwell on what other people think like my Mom. She and I lived in different times and different conditions and as long as my husband and I agree on this arrangement for my son then I should go on with this job. Motherhood will always be fraught with criticisms, opinions and unsolicited advices especially from those who survived their own set of circumstances.  But I know all mothers are trying their best in the only way they know how because like me they are still continuously learning about this phase in their lives. And it is only through the passage of time can they completely unravel what motherhood really means, a word that encompasses the meaning of sacrifice, love, sadness, joy, disappointments, tears, and happiness.

Nowadays, the snowman question comes and goes. Sometimes it’s about the sounds of the cow and the rooster. But it doesn’t matter. My patience can take it as long as he talks to me. I’ll answer it over and over again. So now, when he asks me again for the millionth time, What color is the snowman? I’ll tell him “Anak, the snowman is white with faint patches of pink because of the tight hugs his mom has given him. She hugs him because she loves him so much and because he has been a good boy.”  He may not fully understand it but I’m sure he knows what hugs are because I often give it to him even if he’s not always a good boy.

Lakambini by May Navarro

The night has began to cool, the air seeping through the bamboo slats of the hut. Oriang drew her shawl closer and tasted the sauce on the earthen pot. Nowhere near the adobo she used to have during family Sunday meals but still, it will be a feast with more potatoes than chicken parts. Her comrades found some native chicken wandering near the hut and happily caught these for her. It’s been awhile since they had some meat. Living in the mountains for weeks before coming to Cavite have been hard, digging rootcrops and hacking sap vines for water. Tonight they’ll partake chicken steeped in vinegar and garlic with mounds of warm rice. Then she heard a slight commotion and looked out the window, She saw people congregating, jubilant with someone’s arrival. “Supremo! “ someone called. Her husband had arrived.

Coming back from the camp in Tejeros, he went past her with no word. She knew it wouldn’t be a celebration tonight. His somber mood reflected the same one when he lost in San Juan, when the Spanish guards defeated them when its reinforcements arrived, he lost many Katipunero brothers there. She herself witnessed the slaughter, riding her mare on the sidelines, watching from afar as he tried to raid the powder room of the colonizers and heard the bursts of gunshots and curses and screams in Spanish. It was the same look he had in every defeat. But this one had a sting it seems. He looked downtrodden, his bolo haphazardly thrown on the table, his crumpled and dented strawhat at his feet. He let out a  sigh and slumped on a bamboo bench. Unfazed about this blight, Oriang took out large spread of banana leaf and smoothed it on the table. She then poured some contents of the adobo, careful to leave enough for the others, the rich scent wafting inside the hut. He smiled and eagerly scooped the chicken bits with his hand.

After dinner, Oriang gathered her needles and thread to sew some of his worn and yellowed shirts. She took off her payneta and let her hair flow freely, taking advantage of the breeze. He sat in front of her, his head leaned back, his eyes closed.

“They demoted me..” he said, his voice hoarse. She didn’t say anything, letting the rustling of the leaves outside fill the gap of her silence. She knew there are still words he had to say like a wound that needs to fester with coagulated blood still willing to flow. They were in Cavite to unify the two warring groups of the revolutionary group he established, the Katipunan and as its leader, he felt he had to intervene.  But this meeting turned into an election he didn’t foresee. As he continued, she learned that they wanted Emilio, a Caviteño to lead a revolutionary government not him. He who pierced the silence of the Motherland and rattled the Spanish government.  She can hear his deep sighs and noticed his closed fist, clenching his arm.

 “After everything, Oriang, everything… ” he lamented.

Everything, she thought. What does that encompass really?  Fleeing for your life, surviving a fire, losing a child and living in the mountains for this fight for independence, does that cover it? Isn’t that enough sacrifice for this cause? What more can they possibly want from him?

            “I almost killed that Tirona..calling me unlettered, unqualified even for a post they spat at me”, he continued in anguish.

Oriang didn’t say a word. His defeat in San Juan had grazed his pride but now it was hacked in pieces. Recalling his sacrifices, she remembered their son and felt the familiar pain. He was named Andres too, like his father. He was barely three and died of smallpox. They couldn’t reach to get medicines on time. He was giddy and playful boy. Andres used to carve him play daggers and wooden boxes from discarded lumber.  But they didn’t have time to mourn him because they had to flee. It was day in August when they buried him.  Andres face had been gaunt, emotionless while looking at the men placing their child to the ground. She held tightly at his arm as their son was being lowered to the pit and let out a faint scream as a primal pain gutted her. She tried hard to steady herself as her legs wobbled and threatened to give way. But Oriang didn’t fall.

“Maybe wanting a free county is not enough,” Andres continued in the cool night.“Because why would they want to believe me, I’m not an ilustrado like Rizal. Maybe they’ve treated him with more respect” he mocked.

Then he stood up and paced the bamboo floors, creaking at each step. Then in a sudden fit, he kicked a wooden chair that came crashing into the nipa wall. “Mga punyeta!” he yelled. “Andres!” Oriang wailed, dropping her threads. She made her way to the fallen chair.

“I’m sorry he said, following her. She looks at him, his eyes filmed with defeat. Their betrayal flicked his armor, pricking the braggadocio he insolently waved. But Oriang refused to acknowledge his defeat. There was too much at stake. The Supremo has to have the tenacity to lead the people.  She touched his shoulder. “We will go past this, like we always do” she said. Her face determined in the darkened room, her frail frame undeterred. He nodded and went to his men.

It had been a few days when the frantic knocks came on the door. Her heart lurched as she remembered the same sounds that awakened her at night in Caloocan when the Guardia Civil came. But this time it was different. Emilio’s men were here. With thundering hoove steps, they fired shots and Oriang saw some of her Katipunero brothers fell, others beaten.  She held her Remington rifle tight but Andres told her to flee before they arrived. She tried hiding in a thicket but was captured with Andres and his brother, Procopio and brought to Naic for trial.

His meeting with other Katipuneros a few days ago had been the subject for this sedition trial.  The trial lasted for days and they were placed in a dingy cellar with only one window.  It was stuffy and overheated. Andres was weak from his wounds, a gunshot in the arm and stab wounds on his neck. He was also feverish. Oriang ripped portions of her tapis to bind his wounds and dipped some of it in water and dabbed it on his body to lower his fever. With an old, musky blanket she covered him. Her solitude often awakened by her worries of his fate, triggering sobs that are stifled when he stirs.

It had been the ninth of May and it was the night of her birthday. Andres heard her cries. He touched her hand. “What is it?” he asked weakly. “Nothing” she replied. “Please..”  he pressed. She was silent then replied.  “It’s just my birthday…I’m sorry I’m being a baby..” He smiled. “Happy birthday, mahal“ he said. She leaned to meet his lips. “I’m sorry we couldn’t celebrate tonight…” he sighed. “You deserve a grand celebration, Oriang with lots of food, lots of friends, lots of laughter, he said “Maybe your parents were right..I can’t give you a good life” he said. She jerked and looked at him. “Don’t say that“ she admonished. Andres smiled and wearily closed his eyes.

When he fell asleep, Oriang remembered how she has changed, from a daughter of a gobernadorcillo to a revolutionary. And how escaping from the Guardia Civil have became apart of her life when she married Andres.  Like riding a carromata in darkened alleys  while clutching critical Katipunan documents or paddling a riverboat in Pasig River to get away from the Spaniards. Perilous as it was, she loved the river part of her escape, the lapping water, the moon that suffused the river with its light, the silence. Far from the travails, the torture, the anguish. She found a stillness there, a comfort she often brings back as she goes through the chaos, the cries again.

The next day the verdict came out, its content was unknown. When the guards arrived at their door, Oriang held on to Andres as long as she can, grabbing his shirt, holding on to his leg until they forcibly ripped them apart. They led him to a hammock because he was too weakened to walk.  Her cries teamed with the tempest that arrived that day. The wind whined as it broke the tree branches and the rain fell hard, angry and steady. She begged the guards not to take his husband and let her go to Heneral Miong and beg for his life or at least let him recover from his wounds before taking him away. They agreed. Holding up her saya tightly, she crossed a furious river while holding on to the sides of white-washed boulders embedded in the water. But when she arrived in the camp, the Heneral wasn’t there.

When she went returned, she saw some guards carrying the blanket they used and the hammock lay in a pile. “Where is he? Where are they?” she screamed frantically. They didn’t answer and walked away. “Please, please, sirs, where are they?” she asked each soldier, grabbing the sides of their uniform, begging and kneeling along their path. Finally, someone said. “We left them in the mountains.”

Oriang ran. In her wooden clogs, she hauled herself up the rocks that littered the slope, grabbing the branches, vines that covered a soggy trail. The rain drummed her face as she clambered on the mud-covered rocks and protruding tree roots. She searched the mountain, going through the thick cogon grasses, scraping herself and calling out his name. She didn’t find him. Days passed and other Katipuneros went up and stayed with her, bringing her food and clothes. But she didn’t eat, accepting only buko shards to abate her hunger. She was filthy and her saya was soiled from dirt, her fingernails ragged and scratches adorned her hands and shoulders.

No, they could not have done it, she thought. We are brothers. Filipinos. No. She refused to believe that they can commit an atrocious act to a brother. After all he did, this was it? Fate can’t be that cruel. No. She wanted to believe he was alive even if the gritty mountains mocked her with its immovable stance, bearing witness to her harried state. No, this can’t be the end. We will always go past anything.

Then he arrived. Julio. One of their trusted friends.  They led him to Oriang. He was aghast at her despondent state but remained collected. She had a slight stench that whiffed in the air. “Oriang, you have to go down..,please don’t do this to yourself  ” he said urgently. She looked at him in his white rolled-up polo and blue trousers with a pistol hanging on his side. Nakpil, she sometimes calls him, is a scrubbed face she haven’t seen in weeks.“ I haven’t found him yet, Julio” she said, barely a whisper. Her lips were dry and her hair was down and unruly, her payneta dangling on the side. They were at a peak of a valley, the sun simmering on their heads. “We already scoured the mountains” he said then shook his head. Her eyes remained fixed on the shrubs below. Yes, fate can be unkind. It can. With that, she drew a deep breath and let the searing numbness she fought for days finally subdue her.  Then she looked at Julio’s kind face and noticed the darkness edging on his side, slowly filling the afternoon light then her legs gave way.

The Gift of Asul by May Navarro

A new set of gray clouds began to float towards us, suffusing the morning sky. My hands began to turn cold. The sea began to gather its own shade of gray as if the nimbus fleet wasn’t enough to cast an ominous mood. Meanwhile, the winds laps at our hair, scattering it to our faces. Where are you, Taytay? I thought. Dear Lord, I hope he’s okay. My grandfather has been missing in the enormous ocean, reduced to a speck in the vastness of it, alone in his beaten bangka. It has been three days. “The storm erupted suddenly, catching everyone by surprise” said one of the lucky fishermen who escaped the grasp of this temperamental monsoon.  But Taytay wasn’t so lucky, swept away by the furious winds, he still hasn’t made it back.

Naynay clutched her sand-crusted rosary beads and held her scarf tightly on her neck as she looks at the defiant ocean. Her duster mottled with sprays from the sea, the lashing waves threatening to get to us. I held on to my wilted umbrella as the wind tried to pull it away, adamantly refusing to give in to this tug-of-war. He will come back, I tell myself, he should. Because he can’t leave me like Asul did.

It is the summer I turned nine, the summer of 1985. I had been reading my Archie comic book in my room when I heard a familiar rumble and slid the curtains aside. It was Taytay revving his owner type jeep inside our subdivision, breaking the lull of monotonous silence in our place. After kissing my wary parents goodbye for the summer, I clambered up Taytay’s stainless steel jeepney and touched the old rosary that hanged in his rearview mirror. Naynay made sure that it was always here, swinging like a pendulum during the ride.  Taytay’s jeep was old and spartan, no fancy radio or contraption, only rolled black plastic covers on the side to protect us from the rain. I have always awaited his arrival, his presence a gift of momentary freedom, freedom from the suffocating house riddled with angry crashes and bitter ramblings, fights that was becoming intense as of late. But when my parents made up, it was as if they didn’t almost kill each other with my mother beaming at the baubles my father bribed as a peace offering. But the lull is achieved only for a time. Then the tempest rises again and I am at my room, listening to rants of a rock band on my headphones to mute their voices.

Taytay often whisked me away, his only apo to the coastal town of Laiya during vacations. Maybe he pitied me, an only child, an innocent civilian caught in the crossfire. I always felt welcomed in their home despite its bare conditions. They lived in an old nipa hut with slats of bamboo as floor and earthen jars to store water with. They ate with their hands, happily polishing the plastic plates that often had fish as viand. But their warmth more than compensated for these modest accommodations as Naynay would  hungrily gather me in her arms when I arrive. “My, you’ve grown up so fast Mina”, she often would exclaim, the lines of her face deepening with each grin. Sometimes, it’s hard to believe my mother grew up in a simple fishing village like this, even harder to comprehend how her red-tinted nails and fully-made up face  is a sharp contrast to Naynay’s rough, hands and weathered face. But I was nine years old and I didn’t think about it much, only the kind concern of my grandparents mattered and the sound of gentle waves washing away the numbness that trailed me from the city.

I wasn’t very fond of taguan and patintero, games some of the kids played in the village. I played for a time then settled to reading my Funny or Hiwaga komiks near the shore. I enjoyed watching the fishermen going out to sea as if embarking on a new adventure and going back before sunset with a heavy bounty. I wondered what kind of fish they caught and the sea creatures they saw. Did they wrestle a giant, hungry squid or dived with the sharks? I wondered. Then I looked at my freshly-brushed doll with a crudely sewn- fish tail courtesy of patches of cloth that fell from Naynay’s sewing machine. Did they see mermaids too?  Were they beautiful as regaled by books and had long, lustrous hair? Did they see their tails in the waves? I always wanted to ask Taytay these question many times. But I knew they were as true as Santa Claus jumping down the chimney and the elves making my doll.

When I exhausted my pile of komiks, I often go to the waves, submerging my feet, feeling the coarse sand underneath. I would also dive and grab seashells underwater and hide it in my pocket and polish the white, smooth stones I would get on my walks. Sometimes, I would chase a skittering hermit crab to its hole, marveling at its speed. Then I would go further down and climb a bed of rocks and sit on top while the sun set, eagerly awaiting the crimson hues and orange splashes that painted the sky.  The display of colors stirred a sadness that made me miss my family.

I always love eating crabs, scraping away at the lavish orange fat inside it shells and dipping it in vinegar strewn with crushed garlic and sea salt. Taytay told me that these crustaceans often lived in the crevices of rocks. So one day I went to my bed of rocks earlier than sunset so I can surprise Naynay with the crabs I can collect. With a basket on hand, I untangled the rocks with my stick, but there weren’t any. Disappointed, I pushed on then I noticed a slight movement behind a pile of rocks, a big crab! I thought. So I tentatively navigated myself there and then saw her. A young girl my age was sitting with dark ringlets like curled noodles framing her face. I was miffed by the intrusion on my space and wanted to call her about it. Then I noticed her long curled locks discreetly covered half her body, her skin dark tan with ridges like scales and a tail covered with blush pink scales. And her eyes had the deepest blue disconcertingly standing out from her brown face. I didn’t move, so surprised, I almost fell down the rocks. She smiled, her teeth the color of ivory. “Hi” I said. She didn’t talk. She had some kind of telepathy. Something like Hello, she conveyed. “You’re a sirena” I told her in my mind. “Is that what they call us here?” she teased.

I called her Asul because she doesn’t have a name. We became friends and played with the pearls she gathered from the oysters she ate. She only eats seaweeds and oysters, nothing with tail. I would bring my sungka and drop the pearls on its wooden ends. I taught her how to play this native game and with my swimming goggles and snorkel on, she would hold my hand as she showed me the yellow and blue lathered fishes swimming in the corals. My grandparents would worry at the time spent near the sea but I told them I met a friend there and they would be appeased.  Nobody minded me as I am an outcast, the city girl who refused to play and keeps to herself so I was free to swim with Asul, and how she swims so beautifully, so fluid and effortless, her tail elegantly dancing through the water. When I couldn’t keep up with her, I would swim on my back and watch the soft clouds float by, listening to her stories. I love hearing her adventures like the pink jellyfish with thin filaments that she swam with in Coron, the dangerous, blustery waves that almost crashed her near the cliffs of Batanes and the timid whalesharks  she observed in quiet Donsol.  

Asul had an acute sense of hearing and would swiftly swim away once anyone gets near us. She also heard their thoughts like she does mine. And this is why their kind was never discovered. But to my detriment, some kids curious about my solitary stance in the rocks often caught me talking to myself as Asul swiftly left, observing us from below the water. The cruel kids then branded me as their Sisa, heckling me as deranged, not only an outcast.

I once asked Asul why she chose me to see her. Or why her kind let them be seen my humans. After taking her turn at sungka, dropping the tiny seashells on the holes, she replied “Because you love the ocean, I know, I’ve heard it” I looked at her, my eyes searched her azure eyes. Is that why? Or maybe she was amused. Maybe she has watched me often lying on the sand, face down, arms tucked my chest and my legs pointed to the sea, anticipating the gregarious waves to sweep me to shore. I would often fantasize being a mermaid, wishing I could swim the depths of the sea and be overwhelmed by the silence of the underwater world . No screams, no crashes, just plain serenity. Maybe Asul had read my mind.

The summer was ending and I was ecstatic about my new friend, one I could anticipate playing with every summer. But she handed me grave news. She would be leaving soon. Her family has had enough of the loud destruction they had to endure from the humans, aghast at the slaughter they have seen. Asul recalled the scores of dead fish that often floated by after each attack, the blood on their gills and the destruction of precious corals where sea animals thrived on. She disliked the bombardment on her home with rocks sometimes crashing at them. Dynamite fishing, I thought. Taytay abhorred these practices and dissuaded the other fishermen from abusing the sea. But some never learned and the amount of fish began to dwindle.  They had to go farther into the ocean to cast their nets like Taytay did the day he went missing.

Saddened, I cried at the cruelty of fate. I’m losing a friend. But Asul softly held my hand then pressed one of the biggest gold hued pearl I’ve seen. She said it was a gift, a reminder of our friendship.  I held it in my hands, watching it catch the light and gape at its smooth perfection. Then I remembered something I could give her and told her to wait. I scampered back to the hut, hid my pearl inside the pocket of my rust-colored jacket, and rustled through my toys then I went back to the rocks. Other kids amused by my fast retreat, called out “Hey Sisa, what’s the rush?” and laughed. Heaving from the run, I gave her a small glass colored sphere with a colored strip embedded inside. Asul looked at it, amazed by this ordinary marble. “It’s so beautiful, I’ve never seen anything like this in the ocean” she gushed “ We call it our glass pearl” I said proudly. She hugged me and I felt the surprising coolness of her textured skin and inhaled the scent of seaweed on her hair. I would often remember that when I think of her. Asul left at sunset, waving goodbye as the last rays of the sun diminished in the sky. I was inconsolable that night and my grandparents didn’t know why.

The coast guards have arrived, muscled men in deep orange shirts, quietly determined to fight the towering waves and scour the islands for Taytay.  Brave men, I thought. I hope they find Taytay fast. Hours passed and some people were muttering that no one could have survived at sea that long, that it was a miracle if he was found. I glared at them for losing hope as I walked the slippery slope of hope and hopelessness. I slid closer to Naynay and held her hand tightly. Then I heard the roar of a rubber boat, from afar it looked like a toy bobbing up and down the unsteady waves, then I saw a figure weakly standing and waving his hands. The rain began to pour and the visibility began to worsen. Then I recognized him. Taytay! I ran to the shore, tearing away my umbrella and screamed with jubilation. Naynay made the sign of the cross and sighed her relief.

Taytay was assisted out of the boat, drenched, shivering and severely dehydrated. His hands and feet crumpled by the sea. He told me that he hanged on his boat as the waves overpowered it, he didn’t let go even if the frightening darkness of the ocean engulfed him at night. And when all had left us alone, he ushered me to come sit beside him. ” I didn’t tell them but I had a friend with me”, he whispered to my ear. “Taytay, come on!” I exclaimed blaming his hallucination to fatigue and hunger. He had been at sea too long, it was muddling his senses. I was just glad that he made it. Digging inside his wet pocket, he smiled then looked at me. “She even gave me this” he said and opened his wrinkled palm, a marble tumbled to the floor.