#palechildren

'Tila labinlimang minuto palang ang nakakaraan pero isang stick nalang at ubos na ang half-pack nya na binili kanina sa 7-11. Gigil na gigil sya sa paghithit sa filter, na parang nguso ng kanyang nobya, sabay buga ng mainit at makapal na usok.

Pinagpalagay ko nang inaantay namin pareha ang susunod na tren. Kasabay ng mga aleng may dala ng mga bayong at bilao na wala ng laman, kasabay ng mga bakasyunista, at kasabay din ng isang grupo ng kabataang wari ko'y kakagraduate lang sa kolehiyo at nagbalak maghanap ng trabaho sa mapangahas na syudad.

Umuulan noon at gusto ko syang lapitan para makihati sa payong. Gusto ko sanang simulan ang aking eksperimento para sa Sociology subject ko ngunit ako'y nangambang baka hindi siya marunong mag-Tagalog. Lumapit ako ng bahagya hanggang isang dipa nalang at magdidikit na ang aming mga balat. Amo'y alak. Siya'y lasing, lasing sa pag-ibig.

Bubuka na sana ang bibig ngunit naunahan ako ng sigaw ng pagod na tren. Lahat kami ay nagatubili, parang mga alipin ni Imelda. Naunang pumasok ang mga aleng may bitbit na bayong at bilao, sinundan ng mga naghahagikhikang mga bakasyunista, pagkatapos sumakay narin ang mga sawing kabataan.

Magsasara na ang pintuan ng tren, pero hindi parin sya umaalis sa kaniyang kinasasandalan. Ako’y nababagabag. Tumigil ang ulan sabay sa aking pagsakay.

Nasisira ang ulo, nalulungkot, nawawalan ng ulirat, nagagalit, nawawala ang pagkatao ng mga taong hindi nangyayari ang inaasam.

Hindi lahat ng bagay ay may malubhang dahilan. Hindi lahat ng dagat ay malalim.

Madalas, literal ang buhay. Walang kumpas ng malumanay na musika habang ika’y naiyak, walang mabait na estrangherong magtuturo kung nasan ang tamang daan bago pa man magtanong, walang mahika. Gigising ka ‘twing umaga para mapagod at humimlay muli.

Ikaw magiisip ng gusto mong kulay. Ikaw rin ang magpipinta. Walang di-karaniwan.

The prefect finally came in. It was so dramatic that if time stood still, it will be one of Diego Rivera's obra. She then gracefully locked the golden arched knobs of the wicket door, the same door where I entered. Her antique bronze crucifix was hanging in between her breasts on her timeworn silk robe that draped her figure. She wore that aged musk that screams ecstacy. She held a stick of old cedar and carefully scrutinized our hair sections, elbows, and journals. Discreet sighs of relief can be heard everytime she passed a row.

All mornings were dedicated to comb and braid her deep marrón locks, arrange it in tiers and envelope it in her head. She usually fell into a trance while doing the ritual but would be suddenly awakened with the slightest hint that we were done. Vividly, I remember how she gulped her saliva, looked at herself in the mirror, and whispered "Está bien. Está bien."  while patting our tiny heads.  During afternoons, she would practice us for the cantata so that we could take the prize money to replace our broken brick roof. The results came out and we were very excited to sleep under a new roof until raindrops washed the red paint, trickled into our faces, and revealed the old cracks of our then brick roof. The morning after the storm, she spared us from the ritual. She would like to fix her own hair instead and try out her new peineta.

For a decade and a hallf, she taught us what to read, not to write, when to smile, how to love, when to die.  

Once she asked me to stand in front of the class and recite the Angelus, after a series of fillers and a minute of silence (without the Angelus), she conquered me and my self-esteem.

On the eleventh month of the following year, I eloped with our cochero. He knew a lot of things that fascinated me. He knew how to fish, and choose the best fish among all of the other fishes in the banyera. I observed closely how he made friends with complete strangers everytime we ask for directions. He doesn't care much about how and how much he dresses, but how he carries himself - verdadero hombre. Everytime he kisses me, it felt like I'm back in our family's vineyard full of happy childhood thoughts which was very different from Enrique's that felt like ground chiles and tobasco peppers poured in my mouth down to my throat. And it's just peculiar, how he can make me smile even if I don't want to.

There were nights when I can hardly sleep because of forgetfulness, because I knew I learned everything by heart in the orfanato. But now, it is like everyday, every memory, every note, one by one, packs suitcases and rides trains and left my nearly empty faculties.

I was then confused. But when he died, I went back at one and entered a different door.

http://www.slgtalent.com/orphanage.jpeg

Skip the theories, skip metaphors, skip the melancholy of the grand piano.

Skip all things philosophical and whimsical, skip rainbows, skip faith, hope, and love.

Skip your skin, choose your tounge. Skip rhyme, choose reason. Skip other people's skin and rhyme.

Be rational and logical. Never meditate. Work very hard. Fight over mundane things. Always wear black shoes. Religiously follow traffic rules. Notice the ordinary and obvious. Gossip.

Then die early.