Here my mother, who must have been
in her early forties, sits on a stone ledge
at Fort San Pedro overlooking the Guimaras Strait.
The sun must have been strong, as she smiles,
trying not to squint against the glare,
as her left arm holds my then six-year-old brother
close. There must have been a strong wind, too,
as her hair is ruffled, as thick white clouds
seemingly scud across the sky,
almost hiding the Cross across the waters.
I can almost hear the amused,
chortled laughter of my brother,
his left hand a blur as he makes
a movement, while his right arm
curves gently around my mother’s neck.
They are framed gracefully, asymmetrically,
mother and son occupying the space
to the right, a third of the whole picture.
To the left is a rocky pier, further out
a docked, interisland ship.
Did she have a premonition then of what
would happen to him, hence the tight clasp
of her hand on his hips? How could she have
understood the strange ways in a far-away land,
when (oh, how could it have happened?)
he died alone so suddenly, the news
coming to us like a thunderclap
in a clear sky, sending us reeling like
unmoored ships in a sudden maelstrom
in the seas? Did the big Cross on the mountain
across the sea listen to his prayers
as my brother battled his personal demons
until the end? Can we grow any stronger
than this?
I put the small picture back on the shelf
where a little dust had gathered. I touch their faces again
