Before the third episode of the Philippines Graphic Literary Workshop (PGLW) concluded on April 18, we knew that we had one more thing that we can offer our bright young fellows: a starting platform for their creative endeavors. Here, we present one of their final outputs from the workshop. We also asked them to provide an artwork that they think best represents their stories. Read on.
A regular ride would normally take you two hours to get to this side of Tanauan all the way from Quezon City. That is if your stomach doesn’t grumble halfway through the expressway. It’s a Wednesday, 2:35 pm on your dashboard clock. Traffic only thickened after exiting Calamba. As soon as the mileage signs no longer include your distance from the City, you know you’re almost there.
You step on the brakes gently, parking the car you have bought with your hard-earned money. There are no cemented roads nearby, and the winds are strong, of course, this is the lakeside, this is the province, this is Tanauan. You have had enough of these pebbles rocking your sedan, which did not fail to crunch some cracking sounds all over your vehicle. When your heels clack with the cobbles, it feels unnatural. The sun hides behind a couple of dark grey clouds, but still hot enough to greet you with a sweat trickling down your forehead. This new foundation you bought better last.
Perhaps it’s siesta time for most of your neighbors. You haven’t seen a familiar face around. Their laundries dance by the long lines of alambre on their front yard, a duet with the wind brought by the summer heat season. Paying no mind to the “For Sale” and “For Closure” signs hanging by the forest green gate where the sampaguita used to climb its shrubs, you pick bronze Yale lock in.
Videogames and movies taught you more than those Good Moral and Right Conduct books in gradeschool. Plus this was once yours, is it really a trespass? Clearly, you have no plans on entering this property, there is pretty much nothing. Nothing much to enter, and nothing much to trespass. Some more paces past the gate and you can barely see the messy tiles underneath the murky water of your old koi pond. The shadow is silly but still. There was a time it was clear enough you could name every fish from the pattern on their scales. This was the exciting part in this tiny garden. It has been a while since you smelled fragrant flowers of Lola in this garden.
You take notice of the greying clouds in Batangas once again. You have been young once, feeding all the fish in this pond. By the water greened by aglae, your reflected summer dress reminds you of Mother. A lover once told you that you take after your mother’s short temper. He remembered your stories. And you took that to heart, because only vile people can equip memory in their weaponry. God bless this dress, it could never be as long as your patience, is what you whispered under your breath.
A slight, graceful bend on the knees allowed you to pick up a rubble. It’s barely a stone, you feel like you could crush it on your palms.
Plok!
It sent a ripple across the pond, but no fish scattered this time. Your mother pinched and pulled your left lobe hard when she caught you throwing pebbles to the pond. This was the afternoon you had to endure a couple of hits from Mother’s broomstick. You despised those red, orange, black, and white dots dashing randomly within the water. You never asked but you figured they would love their fishes more than you with that summer dress. But the fish and flowers are no longer, the pond more greener than you remember. Your dark brown hair falls perfectly on your full bosom.
In another time, she caught you once with her bra which was too big for your innocent chest. The locks unfastened, sending cold, tiny pinches on your back. As if by some co(s)mic intervention, the towel you wore as a tube dress fell off when she yelled your name in blazing anger. No laughter came for the boy named after Abraham’s son. Your eyes turned towards the shut door, tracing the steps to Mother’s closet. It would be a few meters to your right after climbing the flight of marble stairs. It is unfortunate that there is no second floor. Decades of storm wreaking havoc on this side of the province has invited collapse where the termites also found food on the floor and beams of wood. Some time after you stopped cutting your hair, Taal Volcano had enough phreatic eruptions and decided it was time for sacks of soot and ash for Christmas.
This part of Batangas is just pure danger. You either live in the city where the smoke creeps into the very alveoli of your lungs, slowly suffocating you in your capillaries, or you breathe one with the breath of the volcano (often exhaled in sulfur dioxide). You purse your lips at the thought of coming back here, the wind quite cold on your sweating nape now.
Honestly, it is a huge relief the government seized this place right after Mother’s passing. Your kuya stopped reaching out to you when you told him this on the fortieth day of Mother’s wake. That means you would not have to pool money for a lot, in a place where it’s a long walk to the city, and quite the drive from the capital, where they say you can make more money. If anything, this property closure might be Mother’s last gift, she hasn’t much to give back in the day, anyway.
“Psst!”
“Bawal po diyan Ma’am.”
A man warned from across the metal gate. The lines on his forehead seemed deeper, his face darker. This is Manong Erik. The one who drove the tricycle when Mother was gasping for air. You thought Manong and his stooped-shoulder should be whistling less on other’s business and more occupied with his Saint Peter funeral service. Obviously he does not recognize you, bangs can really change a person. You used to rock that barber’s cut among your childhood block. He is giving you a glare. His vision is probably failing him, that’s pretty much from all the smoking. That’s your signal to stand up from the cobbles.
The sky started to cry in small droplets. You’re just thankful it’s not ashes.
Written by John Maverick Alviar
