The neighbors say he suffers from
dementia. On the balcony, he stares at
the cloudless sky. How he declares
the stars have turned into tubers
of motley shapes and colors! He asks if
he could fish some and trade them for
a gantang of rice. Perhaps the
copious harvest at his clearing one
May afternoon has lingered in his
memory. When he goes silent, I send
him to his bedroom and tell him
that tomorrow evening, the sky will
be teeming with stars. He smiles.
