DWP prompt: my own little rain cloud

GOODBYE, MARVIN

I saw your note last night when I came home: brief and to the point.

"been wanting to say i'm moving out; so today is my last day here. sorry, would've given more notice but just can't find the opp. i've removed much of my stuff, whatever i've left, keep if you want, discard if you don't. know that i've always wished we'd work out. but some things just won't. marvin"

I cried, both from sadness and relief. Sadness that we reached the point when we could no longer talk to each other and you had to say your goodbye on a small piece of paper. Relief that at last I am free of you and I didn't have to be the one to say goodbye.

The last several weeks, I'd wake up and seemed that the sky was always gray. I'd force myself to enjoy the sunshine and mild temperatures but you'd come to mind and it's like a bucket of cold water had been poured on me. I had been wanting to tell you to move out or I would, but I don't know if it's dread or pity or just plain hate, but I just took all opportunities not to have to look at you or talk with you.

The few times we had managed to make love (only out of physical need was the only explanation in my mind) you cooed at me when you noticed I was crying, thinking it was my expression of pleasure, when in fact what I wanted was to push you away. If you had noticed, I no longer open my mouth when you kiss me. Only the need to gratify the physical desires made me move my body in rhythm with yours. I cried because the act had become meaningless and I dread having the urge again to be loved by you. I know your style, your moves, your whispers, your touch, which now I all dread.

We had grown so far apart we can't reach each other anymore. And in the end, I had no more desire to reach you. I stopped talking because I couldn't pretend any longer. I didn't want you to think that anything about you still meant anything to me. I wanted you to leave me, to leave me alone.

And now you had left. I sat by the window and watched the almost horizontal rain as it pelted onto the glass pane. But the weatherman had said the rain would only last until mid-morning. And so did my pain.

DWP prompt: calypso

FLOWERS FOR MARTHA

I wonder if you can hear me, Martha, as you lay there in your bed. The doctor says there's nothing more that he can do for you. I have signed the forms, once you take your last breath, they will start harvesting your organs, as you have wished in your will and in that little green card you kept in your wallet.

Martha, I regret about the accident. I know, I know, there's nothing I can do about it now. I have played it in my mind over and over, even in my sleep. And yet it baffles me that I am whole, nary a broken bone. But you, you're dying. Are you really? Martha, if you can hear me, do something so I would know.

It's not fair. Oh, God, it's not fair. How can I make things right, Martha? How?

We were fighting just before the accident. Just before we saw that big truck flying across the median on the highway and in a snap it crushed us, made us one with the glass and metal of our car. Just before that, you asked why I never sent you flowers? I told you, it's not my thing. Trinkets, lingeries, jewellery. I gave you hundreds of those. And yet you want flowers. Something that wither and then thrown away. You forget about it afterwards.

And yet, now you cannot see this. This flower that you so wanted. What good would this do for you? It will not bring you back; it will not cure you. Ironic, isn't it, Martha, that now I spent so much for these orchids that you wouldn't see, wouldn't smell, wouldn't touch, wouldn't know. This is not my thing, Martha. But here, have these. I got them especially for you. I love you, Martha.

Mr. Blue Eyes

Note: This story was published in 2000 by the unfinished press in an anthology titled "Shades of Blue"



“Spare some change, miss?”

Isabela heard a deep voice. It came from what looked like a heap of garbage sprawled on the steps of the condemned Bank of Montreal building on the corner of Yonge and Queen Streets. She gave a cursory glance. It was a man.

On impulse, she walked closer to the curb, being careful not to step off the pavement onto the traffic. She looked away, ignoring the man, and quickened her steps. She glanced at the traffic light and saw that the Queen Street traffic was still on green. She could make it to the corner just in time for the Yonge traffic to go and she would cross the street. But guilt chewed at her conscience. She was brought up poor and her parents instilled in her a compassion towards those less fortunate than herself. She inwardly chastised herself then turned and walked towards him.

He wore layered clothing despite the humid July heat, the colours indiscernible from filth. His unshaven face was dirty. She looked at him full in the face. Beneath the brim of his muddied baseball cap, Isabela saw the man’s eyes. She was struck by their vivid blueness - blue as the ocean she had seen from the airplane during her many travels to Asia and Europe. They were the bluest blue eyes she had ever seen.

“What did you need the spare change for?” she asked. She reached down her suit pocket, pretending to fish out some change; but she guessed he probably knew it was just an act: there was no jingling sound of any spare change. The man propped himself up and sat at the very top of the stone steps.

“For breakfast, ma’am. I haven't eaten for two days,” he said. He returned her stare, a glazed, blank stare. She stood there for a long time in front of him, staring, hesitating. For some strange reason, she felt sympathy for him. The man and his blue eyes.

She felt a tinge of panic inside and thought about just giving the man a few quarters, as she mentally searched the inside pockets of her purse for change. But her feet seemed frozen on the pavement. She stood there gawking at the blueness of his eyes. Only the loud sound from the bell of a passing streetcar seemed to jolt her back to her senses. She said, “Look, I can't give you money, but I can buy you breakfast, if you like." She could not believe what she just said. I am being hypnotized, she thought.

He smiled; it was a mocking smile, she thought. “I know, ma’am, you don't trust me,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion, at the same time appearing suspicious of the offer at hand. “I can’t blame you. Thank you anyway.”

“No, it’s principle,” she said, “If you’re hungry, I’ll give you food, but not money.”

He looked down at the pavement; the expression on his face changed to that of resignation. She couldn’t see his blue eyes. Then he looked up at her again, and in an almost inaudible voice, he said, “I don’t want to impose, ma’am; you must be on your way to work.”

She shook her head lightly. “No, I’m not from Toronto,” she lied. “I’m a tourist.” Then she said, “Your choice.”

She motioned to her left, at the rows of McDonald’s, Burger King and a small diner with a 24-hour neon sign still blinking and a blackboard outside its door advertising “pancakes” special. Across Queen Street, towards the south, Tim Horton’s and Taco Bell signs loomed prominently.

The man stood up, tentatively, all the while staring at her face, himself unbelieving. He was tall, towering above her; the lean shoulders hunched as if in total defeat of what fate had handed him. The dirty clothes hung from his body, frayed from being unwashed; as a repulsive smell emanated from his movement, Isabela took a couple of steps back.

The man took a few steps, blinking his blue eyes and shaking his head as if seeing daylight for the first time. “Pancakes,” he said in his deep, tired voice.

Isabela pointed to the bundle he was using as a pillow.

“What about your stuff?” she asked, concerned his meagre belongings might get lost.
Instead, he muttered, “Pancakes,” again and the glazed blue eyes were fixed on the blackboard in front of the diner up ahead. Without another word, they walked towards the diner. The man trailed behind her. She made sure she was at a safe distance to avoid the putrid smell that had now assaulted her nostrils and caused a throb in the spot above her eyebrows. Her stomach churned and, for a moment, she felt like throwing up and almost regretted her act of kindness.


“Not allowed! Not allowed here!” the oriental waiter protested, in a heavily accented tone, as he tried to shoo the vagrant away, like he was driving away a stray dog.

Isabela looked at the waiter, raised one hand to stop him and said, “He’s with me,” a tone of resolute defiance in her voice.

Two men, both wearing business suits, appeared behind them, wanting to get in. One muttered, “What the fuck!” but held off when Isabela looked back at them with one raised eyebrow. They left, laughing and muttering obscenities Isabela felt were directed at her.

The Korean waiter looked at her with astonished disapproval and muttered something in his language, something that sounded savage. He looked at Isabela from head to toe, surveyed her Donna Karan suit, the pearl choker, the big leather purse and white Keds running shoes. His unbelieving look seemed to tell her, “Surely you don’t mean that!” But she knew the look meant more than that. He was belittling her, probably thinking she’s some Filipina shit who couldn’t resist picking up a handsome beggar. She cursed the waiter in her head. An equally savage curse in her own language.

“Bad for business, see?” the waiter said as he motioned towards the direction of the two men.

She could almost feel the waiter’s disdain: her face turned red. She continued to stare at him. She resolved she would not back down. She noticed his nose twitched from the smell of her unlikely guest. Then, realizing she would not leave, the waiter stepped back and let them in. He walked up behind the counter, still muttering savage sounds.

The restaurant was empty. Isabela chose a table by the opened glass window -at least the smell of fumes from the passing cars would be a relief from the putrid smell of her guest; the smell of rancid grease that permeated the whole restaurant was already a blessing. She told Mr. Blue Eyes (for in her mind she decided to call him that) to sit down. Instead the man motioned for her to sit first, taking his dirty cap off his head, revealing unwashed, unkempt dark blonde hair, bowing his head in a gallant fashion, bending his body awkwardly. It was a sincere gesture. Chivalry’s not dead after all, she thought as she smiled at him and sat down. She handed him the laminated menu card which was propped on the table. His face brightened at seeing the sumptuous colourful pictures. A smile almost appeared at the corner of his mouth, the colour of his eyes now a more vivid blue.

Without looking at his host, Mr. Blue Eyes said, “I may not have this chance again, ma’am, but do you mind if I get the pancakes with sausage and eggs?” His fingers pointed at a glossy picture. The dirty, pallid face was for a brief while painted with excitement, like a child opening a most wanted gift on his birthday. His lips stretched into a smile, the sunken cheeks revealed a pair of dimples.

“Sure,” Isabela said, nodding. “Go ahead.”

The man motioned to the waiter who deliberately tried to ignore him. Isabela then raised her one arm and flicked her fingers and said, “Mister!” raising her voice enough for the man to hear.

The waiter, making no effort to disguise his annoyance, walked up to the table.

“What!” It was a rude interjection rather than a question. Ignoring this show of rudeness, Mr. Blue Eyes ordered the pancakes combo and coffee. He ordered coffee for Isabela but she politely declined, amused at this show of gallantry but at the same time preoccupied with anger at the waiter’s attitude. She turned to the waiter and, in a quiet, firm voice, told him to give her the bill right away. Still mumbling with disgust, the waiter walked back behind the counter, angrily punched the order on an unseen machine then disappeared through the kitchen door.

“What is your name?” she asked, trying to make her voice sound kinder, friendlier.

He did not answer. He sat quietly, his head slightly bowed, stealing a furtive glance at her face. He was embarrassed and was visibly more uncomfortable than Isabela. Then he said, “Them people must be mocking you.” He motioned his hand towards the counter. He continued, “And thinking bad things about you bringing me here...” his voice trailed, “A bum, smelling like a pig.”

She shrugged her shoulders and smiled, but he didn’t see as he lowered his gaze down. For a while, they both sat down facing each other in awkward silence.

“What happened to you?” she asked in an attempt at small talk. When he did not answer, she apologized. He looked out into the street seeming to count passers-by and cars. His eyes had turned a darker shade of blue, like the colour of a gathering storm on the high seas. She thought he must have been offended by the question. She chastised herself: what right did she have asking him about his predicament just because she was buying his breakfast?

“I'm sorry,” she said. He didn't say anything.


The food arrived. He drank his coffee in one gulp and asked for a refill then ravenously attacked his pancakes. For a moment, Isabela was afraid that he would choke but he just swallowed and gulped. Nothing happened. She sat there, mesmerized by the man’s blue eyes. She noticed his lean hands, the long bony fingers which probably did not know manual work now dirty, the long uncut fingernails black underneath, protruding from a pair of dirty, shorn, knitted gloves. She surveyed his dirty face and guessed that it must have been days since he last shaved.

Halfway through his breakfast, he said, “Cocaine.”

Isabela strained to hear him between his chewing and the noise coming from a passing Fedex delivery truck.

“Crack cocaine. That's what happened to me,” he said again. “And booze!”
He was adept at using knife and fork, Isabela observed. She guessed that he must have been brought up properly, had good education. She pictured him in an expensive car, with beautiful women. She pictured him neat and trimmed and clean, in a suit, lounging in a large well-furnished home. She pictured him not as he appeared. Then after a long silence, he spoke again.

“I used to have a family, a big home, a nice car, a good job. I lost them all because of cocaine. I sold my soul for cocaine. I didn't care if I didn't eat; any money I could get my hands on, I spent on cocaine.” He paused. He contemplated one of the sausages before cutting it into four pieces and forked one piece into his mouth.

“And alcohol,” he continued, pouring syrup on his last pancake. “But I prefer my life now, a bum. If there is drugs, then so be it. If not, it really doesn't matter.” He slowly placed his fork down as he chewed the piece of sausage. He looked away.

His face betrayed emotions of sadness and regret. His gaze lingered outside into the street. He furrowed his eyebrows and shook his head. Isabela thought she saw a glint in his blue eyes: he was fighting tears. She followed his gaze. At the bus stop, a man, probably in his thirties, dressed in a yellow golf shirt and neatly pressed khaki pants held a thin briefcase and a lunch bag in one hand; the other hand held the tiny hand of a small boy, no more than eight years old: father and son, engaged in casual conversation. Then, almost abruptly, Mr. Blue Eyes grabbed his fork and continued to eat his food in silence, more deliberate now, as if trying to memorize how each bite of food tasted, or maybe, Isabela decided, trying to purge his mind of the poignant memories spurred by the scene outside.


When he finished, the plate was wiped clean: no crumbs, no spills, no leftovers. He was really hungry, Isabela thought. He drank the rest of his coffee without so much as looking at her. When he finished, he sat quietly for a while, then started to fidget with his feet underneath the table. She sensed his uneasiness and Isabela took this as a signal to leave. She stood up, walked to the counter, grabbed a cello-wrapped cinnamon bun, waving it to an older oriental woman crouched unseen behind the counter. She heard the woman say something in the same language as the waiter’s and the waiter appeared from the kitchen. She asked for the bill by making an imaginary rectangle in the air with her fingers. She walked back to the table and gave the cinnamon bun to Mr. Blue Eyes, placing it on the table in front of him.

She smiled and said, “Have a nice day.” Before he could say anything, she turned away and walked back to the counter.

She paid the waiter, telling him to keep the several cents change. The waiter said something under his breath that she strained to understand: “Why a nice woman like you do this?” She glared at him. It was her turn to look at the waiter with disdain. She fought hard within her to ignore the question and, without saying anything, left the restaurant. But inside her, she asked herself the same question. Was it pure pity or curiousness? Pity wasn’t it. Maybe she’s curious. She quietly charged it to her religious upbringing: help the poor. But she passed by many other beggars every morning, everyday, everywhere and she never as much gave them anything. “Why don’t you get a job, you idiot!” sometimes she would tell a what looked like an able-bodied person. But Mr. Blue Eyes. She couldn’t resist those blue eyes.


Outside, in the street, the still, humid air seemed a precursor to another scorching day. She sensed someone walking closely behind her: it was Mr. Blue Eyes. She quickened her steps but he had longer strides and as he went past her, he walked backwards so that he was facing her. He smiled and said, “Thank you.” Isabela looked at him and his blue eyes one last time and smiled at him, then, aware of strangers’ eyes with questioning looks, nodded in dismissal. He smiled back. In a moment, the man with very blue eyes was gone.

At the corner of Yonge and Queen, as she stopped and waited for the lights to turn green, she looked up at the hazy blue sky, a ray of dull morning sunlight that shone between the tall buildings struck her eyes. She removed her blazer as she felt sweat from the back of her neck trickling down her spine and forming beads on her forehead. The lights had turned green and a throng of people from the other side started to cross. She slung her blazer across one shoulder and without looking back, she met the throng head on and crossed Queen Street. She walked past an old man holding a sign that read “Homeless Viet Nam Vet” begging for spare change. A few yards farther, a young couple with green spiked hair huddled together underneath a blue blanket and asked her for a dollar. Isabela twisted her lips in disgust. She kept walking.

A SHORT STORY - The Ocarina

Music fills the almost empty pathway between the Eaton Centre and the subway station. In my head, I put words into the music: Should old acquiantance be forgot and never brought to mind? The music is so smooth I can picture notes floating in the air. A flute, maybe? Then I remember that my immediate concern is to get on the next train so I walk faster to get to the escalators going up the station. It is New Year's eve and I want to get home right away.

It is hard to ignore the music and in my mind I have decided it is the sound of a flute. A picture came to mind of someone standing beneath a bridge in Amsterdam - a woman flutist, wearing a traditional dress of the Dutch and wearing Dutch sandals, her flute of silver color glistening in the setting summer sun. I remember stopping, admiring the music she made with her flute, and fishing out a ten American dollar bill and gently placing it on the velvet lined case of her flute which lay open on the pavement by her feet. It was a scene from long ago, the summer of 81, when as a young exchange student, I had toured Europe to augment my historical and geographical knowledge.

At the turn, I realize the musician is a man. I can see him now. He has combed back dark curly hair that reaches down his shoulders. He wears a pair of glasses, the one side being held together by thin strips of gray duct tape. His frayed jacket, too small even for his thin frame, used to be the color of the sky but has now turned dirty gray. He holds a small blue instrument that sounded like a flute, cupping it delicately in his hands, his dirty fingers adeptly working the holes. It is an ocarina. My heart pounded at the recognition of the thought that suddenly asserted itself in front of my vision. Jeremiah.

I look at him again and at the same instant, he lifts his head and opens his eyes shaded by the glasses’ rim, one glass broken in two. He looks at me for a second then shifts his eyes, away. I see his mouth stiffens. He quickly brings the ocarina back to his lips and blows a note, then two, and starts to play a melody. He stops, looks down behind him, and pulls a small plastic stool. He sits down and tests his ocarina again. I stop right in front of him and wait for him to look up. He bends down and fixes the shoe lace of his worn out running shoes, his toes peeking. When he seems to have settled, he places the ocarina in his mouth and starts to play Ravel’s Bolero, softly, slowly, as the music should be. He closes his eyes, as if by doing so I will go away.

“Jeremiah,” I whisper. He misses a note but carries on with the music. I lean on the wall and I can feel the cold tiles through my thick winter jacket. My legs feel like noodles and my vision start to blur. Tears start to swell and my throat seems to close and I couldn’t breathe. “Jeremiah,” I say again, this time louder.

He turns the other way, and I can only see the side of his face and mostly his long hair. My son, my son, I cry in my head. I stand there and wait for the music to finish even though I know it is a long piece.

Three years ago, he left home. My baby, my first born. It broke my heart when he did, but I kept my hurt to myself. He had been out of school for two years, didn’t know exactly what to do after high school. He loved working on computers and I had hoped he would’ve wanted to enroll in a course. I pushed him into working, save enough money for a downpayment for tuition. I could not afford to send him to college. I chastised him for wasting his opportunities, 180 IQ, his adeptness at a lot of things, but he only settled for a part time job at Dunkin' Donuts. He had a girlfriend, Sarah, and he spent all his free time with her or talking to her on the phone and spending whatever money he had on her.

"Do you not realize that other people would’ve loved to have the good start you and your brother had?"

Then I ranted about how my siblings and I grew up poor, we never had the things he had; we were not smart but we had scholarships even partial ones just to get us to the next year of school because we studied hard. The older ones worked during daytime and schooled at night and scrimped on money to send us the younger ones to college. We never asked for anything back because we resolved we would give it back to our children, so they don’t experience that poverty we suffered.

With his meagre wage, he bought the ocarina. He was always short of money, borrowing from me, from his brother, from anyone. But he could afford to pay for that ocarina.

"What are you going to do with it?" I had asked. "That’s why you’re always short of money, if you’re not spending it on your girlfriend, you spend it on unnecessary things. What good will that thing do for you unless maybe you do that in the subway. Is that the life you want?"

And now, this is what he does. The subway music gig. With that blue ocarina. He continues to play but still would not look at me. As he plays, I see a tear flowing down his cheek. A young couple throws a tooney into the oversized hat in front of him. I open my purse and pull out a fifty-dollar bill. I reach over and put it in his jacket's pocket. "Jeremiah," I say. "Please come home." He continues to play, he does not open his eyes. "Or at least call." I stand near him and wait for him to stop and say something. But he is unmoved.

As I walk away, he switches his music to "Auld Lang Syne" again, until the sound is drowned by the coming subway train.

i remember...#4

Christmas Past. 1973. I am 20.

Mother stares wide-eyed at the humongous Christmas basket. With her good left hand she turns the basket around, being careful not to tear the cellophane cover as she peers through it, checking the contents of the basket. My young brother, Basil, squats on the floor beside the basket. He touches the cellophane wrap but Mother slaps his arm and he promptly withdraws his hand.

"I'm just looking," he says smiling.

"Then just look."

"Open it," I tell her.

"No, the wrapping is so pretty. It's so nice to look at," she protests.

"Are you going to just stare at it until everything gets spoiled or eaten by ants?"

Mother smiles. Before she could stop me, I yank the glittery ribbon and it comes off along with the fake berry and holly trimmings and they fall on the floor.

"There," I say. "There's a box of Belgian truffles..." I hand her the box. "A can of cashew nuts." She promptly grabs it and places the can on her lap, her paralized right arm protecting it.

As I take out each item, she grabs what she likes and puts it on her lap. Those that she doesn't want to save she hands to my brother. When we finish, only four items can be eaten or used right away, the rest of the goodies ended on her lap.

"Can we have chocolate marble ice cream for tonight?" she asks.

"Ice cream, for Noche Buena?" I say. "You know I can't have anything cold in the evening. My stomach will...."

"Then don't eat it!" she cuts me off.

"Besides, we have ice cream cake in the freezer."

"But I want chocolate marble."

Since my mother had a stroke and became paralyzed a few years ago, I sometimes find myself in reversed roles with her: I the mother and she the child. But it's hard to say no with those wide eyes pleading at you, or the look of resignation that bears just a slight hint of pout.

And so I take a twenty-peso bill from my pitaka and tell Basil to go and get a large tub of chocolate marble ice cream. He goes off with my two younger sisters, Leng and Wowie, with three of the neighborhood kids, as if they were off to a big excursion.

When they come back, they have two large containers of ice cream.

"Two? Don't I get any change?" I ask holding my hand out for change.

Basil shakes his head. "The other one," he says, "is Rocky Road." I sneer at him. "But, it's your favorite!"

"I like that, too," Mother interjects.

And so the family ends up that Christmas eve having spaghetti and ice cream. I eat the spaghetti. The rest of them have spaghetti and ice cream.

A SHORT STORY - Silent Night

The girl, about eight, stands by the window and holds her little baby brother in her arms as she hums "Silent Night". Sometimes the baby lets out a small cry, but always it is soothed by his sister's gentle swaying. She looks out the window, where she can see the far end of the street, the cars and buses tiny in her vision. She strains her eyes trying to make out if the image of a woman at the corner is of her mother, who has left earlier in the afternoon promising to come back with food for their Christmas table. But it's not her mother. For a while, it looks like her, but it isn't her. Lights can sometimes fool one's vision especially at dusk.

The girl thinks of her mother, concern obvious in her furrowed eyebrows, as she sets the baby on a tattered blanket on the wooden floor. Her mother has not been well for a few days now - she's had fever at each day's end, and coughs that sounded like ribs are about to burst out of her chest. Even then, after she has put on her only good dress, the pink one with little sequins in the bodice, she looks beautiful, especially with her hair pulled up and only little wisps of her curly hair framed her face. She has kissed both the little girl and the baby and held them in her arms for a long time, whispering soothing words.

She says she will be gone for only a few short hours. A friend from a long time ago owes her money and she will try to get it so they can buy food for Christmas and, especially, milk for the baby. She says they will go to church and attend mass and they will kiss the statue of the infant Jesus lying in the manger at the back of the church. She will be home soon, she promises. "As soon as I can."

The sky has already turned dark and the horizon's deep red slowly vanishes as the sun sets and the night settles in. Faint twinkling of stars appear above. The girl doesn't know if there will be a moon, but she hopes there will be. Her mother has said, after her father died, that he has gone to heaven and is sitting on an anvil and she can see him when she looks up at the moon.

The baby lets out a small cry. The girl puts her little finger between the baby's lips, and the baby, although too weak from hunger, sucks it eagerly. The girl prays that milk comes out so the baby won't be hungry anymore. The baby falls asleep and the girl wishes he would sleep longer this time, or at least until her mother comes back.


A woman with wan skin and pale face, sits on a chair outside the dance hall. She tries to suppress a cough as smoke from another woman's cigarette blows her way. Although looking sickly and dressed simply, she is no doubt the most beautiful among the other women. The manager, a short dark man with a goatee beard arrives shortly, accompanying another man, much taller, handsome and well dressed. But if one looks closely, his eyes are cold and expressionless. He eyes the seven women sitting along the corridor and points at the woman with the pale skin. The manager flicks his finger at her and although feeling sick, she stands and smiles at the man.

The manager asks the man and the woman with the pale skin to follow him through the long corridor and up a steep and narrow stairwell to the second floor. The manager opens a door to a small room with a wooden bed. There is a thin foam on top of the bed, a threadbare pillow and an old bedsheet. She unfolds the bedsheet and covers the thin foam. She sits on the edge of the bed. The man, without speaking, takes his wallet from the back pocket of his pants, opens it and pulls a few bills and hands it to the manager. The manager smiles and nods at the man and thanks him as he retreats from the room.

The man takes off his clothing and lies on the bed. The woman with the pale skin carefully undresses herself and lies beside the man. Upon his touch, she closes her eyes and when he goes on top of her, her tears flow. She thinks of her children, her beautiful little girl who she dreams will become a ballerina someday, and her little baby boy who she hopes will become a doctor when he grows up. She smiles at the thought and the man takes this to mean pleasure for her. So the man violates her body again and again until he himself is exhausted.

He gets up and dresses himself again. Although weak, she dresses herself, too. The man throws a few bills on her lap as he leaves the room. She pockets her money, and finishes buttoning up her blouse. On her way down the stairs, the manager hands her a few more bills. She smiles at the manager, bows her head slightly and thanks him for his kindness and generosity.

She takes a short bus ride to the nearest market. Most stalls have already closed for the night, it being Christmas Eve, but she knows one store that would still be open. The Jewish storekeeper keeps his shop open until late. She only barely notices the bright lights on Christmas trees displayed in the stalls, as her trembling knees speeds up to get to the end of the market building. She promises herself that if she feels better after Christmas, she will take her daughter here so she can see the beautiful Christmas displays.

At the grocery store owned by a kind Jewish man, she takes a small basket and goes around examining the store shelves. In her basket, she puts two small cans of Vienna sausage, a jar of marmalade, a small loaf of bread that is still warm, and a can of milk. She sees a small doll. She checks her money and, content that she can afford it, she pays for her purchase and walks briskly to the bus stop. Her arms are weak and her load proves heavy for them. She starts to cough again. A bus is coming fast and she needs to catch it so she does not have to wait long for the next one. She wants to be home immediately, to feed her children, and to rest.

Her head feels heavy and everything around her seems to swirl. The bus slows down, but the driver, seeing no one at the bus stop, drives away. The woman yells for him to stop. She runs; she has to catch this bus if she has to reach home in time to feed her children, to take her daughter to hear the midnight mass. She wants to go home to her children. She does not want to wait for the next bus which would get her home well after midnight. She needs to be home now.

She runs faster while she hangs on to her grocery bag, hugging it tightly around her chest so the cans of Vienna sausage and the milk and the marmalade and the loaf of bread and the doll don't fall off. When she reaches the curb, the heel of her left shoe breaks and she loses her balance. She fights to not fall and steps off the pavement onto the road. A car in the next lane swerves to the right to pass the slower car ahead, grazes the curb and hits the woman wearing a broken shoe and carrying a large grocery bag.

Suddenly, the woman sees blinking Christmas lights hanging on edges of the roof and gutters and walls of the market building. And as her head hits the ground, the last thing that the woman sees is the back of the bus as it speeds away, the bus that she has wanted to catch so she can go home to her children, while she still holds on to her precious groceries.


The girl sits on the floor, her little baby brother in her arms. He does not cry anymore. She has told him to stop crying for mother will soon be home. She puts a pillow on his face for just a while to quiet him. Her stomach continues to grumble from hunger, three days without food will do that to you. She stands up and looks out the window. But she only sees the darkness nearby, a flickering candle from the house in the middle of the field opposite her house, and the faint light from the street lamps at the far end of the street. A woman gets off a bus and the little girl squints her eyes to see if it is her mother. It has to be her. Finally!

She puts her baby brother on the floor, very carefully, for she does not want to wake him up. She stands by the window, props her arms on the sill, and starts to hum "Silent Night".

i remember...#3

Christmas Past. Manila, 1975.

It is three o'clock in the morning and I am terribly late coming home. My boyfriend Jimmy and I along with our officemates have gone disco dancing. I don't know why I go when I don't dance at all but because Jimmy loves to dance, I feel obliged to go. I take a taxi to go home, but our street is too narrow for the taxi to go in so I have to walk the length of our street. Our street is near the town church and around the church, there are already people who have set up shop and getting ready to ply their wares to people attending the early morning mass. I pass by a woman busy making rice cakes. Older women, devout Catholics are slowly walking their way to the church.

I curse the fact that our house is situated at the very end of the street. The dogs wake up from the loud "clack-clack" noises my platform shoes make on the paved ground. They start to bark. I reach our compound of four houses, ours being one of the two behind. The house in front of us has a dog and this dog wakes up, too, and starts to bark which triggers other dogs to bark, too. The barking, if it lasts too long, would wake my father up, then he would find out I am just coming home.

My two younger sisters, Leng and Vivian and the children from the neighbors' attend the early morning Christmas masses. Leng, who is a deep sleeper, ties a string around her wrist and drops the end outside the window; it is long enough to reach just above the ground and the other children would pull it to wake her up. They turn this going to early mass like an excursion because afterwards my sister would treat them to the rice cakes and other sweets sold around the little market by the church.

Our door does not have a lock. Its "lock" is one of the chairs that we prop so that if anyone tries to get in, the chair will make such a noise that my father, or one of us would surely wake up. There is a hole on the wall, big enough for my arm to go through, reach for the chair and slowly remove it so I can open the door without noise. But the dogs continue to bark and for some reason the chair won't budge from its position. The neighbor's dog ambles near our house and I had to hit it with my shoulder bag so it would go away. That is when I notice the string. I pull it a few times until Len wakes up.

"Alright! Alright," I hear her say. I could imagine her arm going up and down as I pull the string. She opens the window and pokes her head out. "What time is it? It's too dark yet, are you sure it's already four thirty?"

"Shhhhh! It's me, I can't open the door," I say in a hushed voice. "Let me in, quick!"

Through the smokey glass of the louvre window, I make out the image of Leng after she turns on the light. She walks halfway across the living room towards the door then turns and walks back to the wall by the foot of the stairs. There we have a cuckoo clock that often stops running in the middle of the night. Not this night though so she has to turn the hands back. As she does this, she looks at me and I make a gesture by flashing my hand twice for "ten" and one finger. She sets the clock to "eleven and a few minutes".

As she takes the chair off the door, it makes a loud scraping noise. In an instant, my father is out in the living room, seemingly annoyed at the little commotion. The first thing he does is look at the clock. He sees it is a few minutes past eleven.

"You're quite late," he tells me. "Overtime again?" He refers to the fact that ever since my office started on a joint project with Mrs. Marcos, I have always been "working overtime".

"Yeah," I say, fanning myself giving him the impression that I am tired.

"Have you eaten?"

"No," I reply. I glance at the clock and say, "But I'm not going to eat now, I'm really tired. Goodnight." I walk up the stairs with my sister, and he goes back to his bedroom.

As I change to my sleeping clothes, my sister tells me, "Next time, you should only pull the string once and quite gently. For a moment there, I thought I lost my arm!"


In the morning, as he prepares to leave for work, my father notices the cuckoo clock. He checks his watch.

"Damn thing, it must've stopped again during the night," he says to no one in particular. He then pushes the hands of the clock to the proper time. The pendulum stops. My father pulls the chain and gives the pendulum a little nudge for it to start again.

My sisters and I look at each other and make funny faces until our father has stepped out the door. When he is out of our sight, we start to giggle.