By Angela Faith
Mukha akong kamatis!
Staring at myself at a car window, I saw the faint silhouette of my face and the planet Mars on
both my cheeks. That was exactly how I felt: a tomato silently orbiting around somewhere I had
never been before… I looked like a planet I’ve never seen before! Chuckling at the idea, I
suddenly felt the sun’s scorching rays behind my nape. I decided to move to a different car
parked underneath a coconut tree for I’ve had enough diamonds sketched on my skin. Then as
soon as I felt its palm again, I moved to a different car, and then a different car. The sun
followed of course like it always does, and I moved until there were no cars left and I was
underneath the wing of the familiar internet cafe.
I saw the auntie shoot me a strange look and somewhere behind my spleen, I understood why.
Shame burned in my cheeks like the heart of a banana tree. How could a child enter an internet
cafe with no change? I was grateful for the auntie though; it wasn’t nice to hang around the
playground with a bunch of towering, little boys.
As I settled myself on my usual spot, the soda cap clattered to the ground, escaping my fumbled
grip. A new curse word bubbled to my lips, the frustration of a borrowed memory from those
telenovelas I watched at home. But as I settled back into the creaky plastic chair, toes dangling
inches from the floor, I stared at the blinking cursor.
If only I had possessed the eloquence of an adult back then! Little me would have surely
erupted in a symphony of metaphors to describe my feelings. But for now, words would suffice.
Anxiety. Amusement. Thrill. Regret. Shame. Rebellion. Hurt. Ignorance. Youth. Sweetness.
Sourness. Sweat. Love. Crush. Amy. Amy. Amy…
After staring for I-don’t-know how long, the relentless march of the afternoon sun finally neared
its slumber, and with it, the inevitable moment when Mama would awake from her siesta. My
heart, a hummingbird trapped in my chest, hammered a rhythm against my ribs. Laughing, I ran
towards home. Sorry auntie, maybe another time! I can’t ever be careless!
There, bathed in the fading light, lay my labyrinth of trinkets. Pieced together from the very
scraps and sighs of our lives – wood, fragrant with the memory of Papa’s workshop, held
together with glue salvaged from a school project. Splinters would snag at my fingertips as I
traversed the familiar paths, my touch as light as a butterfly’s kiss.
Each trinket was a portal to a memory. A piece of a chipped plate, the time my mother threw it
at me. Tiny pearls, once nestled in my gums, now a testament to the march of time. A silken
thread of Mama’s hair, a whisper of lullabies sung and stories told. Polished gemstones from
journeys unknown (buttons I’d found scattered on the dusty road), and echoes of the ocean’s
roar, a symphony of a bygone seaside adventure (seashells collected with squeals of delight).
And now, a lone red soda cap, a symbol of a heartache I was far too young to understand. My
favorite by far.
It was all I’ve ever owned. It was my soul’s responsibility to protect it and God’s responsibility to
give me more. But God does not listen to a girl birthed from a banana tree because Mama was
already there, holding my labyrinth and letting it fall into pieces.
San ka nanggaling?! Ano ‘to, bakit ang dami mong basura!
The scream pierced through my skull and I clutched the hem of my hole-covered dress,
knuckles white, an effort to hide the tide of anger threatening to cascade down my cheeks. Pain,
sharp as a hornet’s sting, flared in my palm. The culprit? The wretched metal teeth of my soda
cap, lodged there like a bear trap. My afternoon of delights dissolved into a watery mess.
My labyrinth morphed into a waterfall. All the carefully constructed daydreams I’d built within its
walls lay shattered, a thousand glittering fragments mocking me. I wanted to do something
about it, all the broken pieces whole again. But what can a girl do? I swallowed the match of
anger and felt it travel down my throat. I gripped my dress and soda cap harder. I drew a shaky
breath, the pain was testimony and mourning.
Mama, towering over me, pinched my ear. “What did I say about collecting all this stupid stuff?
You’re inviting rats into our home and we’ve already got enough!” Glaring at me as she said the
last sentence. “Even pieces of my hair?! Are you an albularyo now?!”
I can’t believe she thought rats could touch my treasures. They are far more valuable than that
of littlest paws. The day may not have gone the way I thought, but my spirit, much like the
weeds growing around our house, would not be so easily subdued! Gritting my teeth, I tasted
sweet blood coming from my gums. A red that made me remember her. My eyes followed my
Mother as she picked up the trinkets and put them into a jar of curiosities. The world tilted on its
axis.
“Ano, bat ‘di ka nagsasalita?!”
I burst into tears.
That night, crammed together like sardines in a particularly cozy tin (though Mama would likely
scoff at the comparison!), I drifted off to sleep clutching the soda cap. The moon, a pale ghost,
peeked through the window, casting its silvery light upon the room. It even managed to
illuminate the small jar perched atop the plastic cabinet. To my sleepy eyes, it shimmered with a
brilliance that far outshone the stars. The stars, on the other hand… they were nowhere to be
found.
I don’t think they were even looking when we held hands. I think they got shy and understood. I
think they didn’t see when you fed me aratilis when I said I was hungry. The juice on your
fingers a little salty. I became red with giddiness. You looked so beautiful in some way and I
won’t ever forget how your eyes glittered. Maybe the stars made their way into your tears
instead. Maybe you were holding a supernova, and I was just in time to see it. We both did not
understand how the world had grown but we understood each other. It’s a feat far greater than
any big bang.
I smelled the soda cap. Still subtly hinting the sweetness of it all.
Kiss me again tomorrow, Amy, I whispered and drifted off to sleep.
Angela Faith is a Filipina wordsmith who isn’t just drawn to tales – she uses them like a paintbrush, crafting vivid miniature paintings that capture the essence of everyday Filipino life. Her interest in crafting prose came from her own Mother’s affinity for poetry. Angela’s infectious enthusiasm and sharp editorial eye were on full display during her time as Editor-in-Chief of the school publication, where she honed her skills in shaping captivating narratives. Now, Angela embarks on a new adventure, delving deeper into the world of creative writing while navigating the field of technology.
Hot Pot Magazine 