How the sky looked like the last time I went home

Happy Easter!

I've been holed inside my room for the entire duration of the Lenten break, so, I missed all the observance of the Passion here, which, based on the telltale signs I kept seeing on the streets on the days leading up to it, has been passionately marked by the community where I live. Still, I sat here deeply engrossed in my reading through out the Holy Week until this morning, when I happened to wake up late to find it's a Happy Easter, and I'd like to greet everyone out there, sending this image of the old the old belfry of the church of the Lady of the Abandoned, and its amazing stained glass windows, which have fascinated me since the first time I entered the church's dark cavernous hall alone.

Hunt for vegan food

I discovered this vegetarian outlet at the heart of Makati but I will only tell you about it later.

Postpartum reflection

I feel so devastated after that long-distance chat with my boy. It had started well, actually, but towards the end, he had been passing judgment on me quite unfairly about the choices I made in my life, without asking me how and why I made those choices. It hurt terribly. But in retrospect, I realized, who were the people who had been judging me that way and it was not my boy. So, I suspected, he just caught that narrative from someone else, just a whiff of an idea, which germinated and came out of his mouth as his own. That's the trouble with long-distance conversations, you only have such a next-to-nothing chance of getting heard, or having some points clarified, you could not even trace how and why he had said such things. I can glean from his lines that he had some issues with me, which had never been there before, well, it must have been the fertile ground for that wicked idea from wicked people to germinate. It puzzled me for a while until I realized where he had been to recently. He accused me of so many things, including perhaps, [because this was not said outwardly, but in between lines] blaming me for his difficult childhood. (Sigh). Life, of course, had not really been that easy for both of us and I had really tried to make it easier for him, though, my best was not really that good enough. But I still think I was not to blame. You know who was to blame. How could I ever make people understand when people can't even open their eyes? They're deaf and blind! 
So, well-what do you expect? He just came back from a visit to his father, so, are you still surprised? They always blame the women for all the effing wrong that happened to their lives, don't they?  Even if it was the women who did all the dirty work for them.
Yet, to hear those things from your own son. I was so disturbed, I did not write anything the whole day.  I was just staring in space and closing my eyes to feel which part of my body hurt the most. 

Open Air Altar

Just after the Jones Bridge, as you head toward Binondo's Santa Cruz church, tucked somewhere in between the highway's chaotic traffic flow, lies a miraculously tiny piece of land that holds this oasis of faith.

Prayers by the roadside

It's Maundy Thursday, the start of the long Lenten break, which for someone working the kind of work that we do, would be the only long holiday open for us for the rest of the year.  That's why, everyone was so excited as we rushed out to help put to bed the newspaper copy last night. Everyone trying his best to keep his cool, to keep his/her mind in focus because the spirit was already rushing out the door, getting inside the elevator in a hurry to get out of the building fast to the life of untrammeled joy and freedom outside.
I merely stayed in my place. I was thinking if I had only bought that ticket, maybe, I would also be rushing home, too. Rushing to the airport to catch the plane to where the heart belongs. But I did not have such a ticket.  So, all I have is the long hours of reading and writing open for me for the long weekend.
When I reached our street, it was already 9 pm, and the vehicle I was riding could no longer get inside because the neighbors had already set up tents outside their homes--yes, tents along the roadsides, and I thought,  is this another vigil for another funeral?  But no. The tent was only for the gathering of people for the prayers to the Jesus of Nazarene,  the cross-carrying image of Christ. I was amazed by the people's observance of the Passion here. It also reminds me how, a year ago, back home in B'la, while Pa was struggling with his ailment, and I still languished in bed to recover from the previous night's late sleep, Ja tried to shake me awake because the procession was already passing by the house. He said the procession was an amazing sight, I should see it, I should at least photograph it. "I thought you wanted to be a real, hardnosed photographer? What kind of a photographer are you? You lie there sleeping while a beautiful event passes you by!" I got the mouthful from Ja while I flitted in and out of dreamland.
When I managed to get up, I only caught the tail of the procession at the end of the road, and I saw an open air altar by the roadside.  Ja shrugged.  But the sight of an open air altar amazed me because it reminded me of the pagan ways. It reminded me of some faraway Greek altars when the world was young. It also reminded me of
the Bagobo altar tambara. I loved that concept of an altar because it lays itself bare and open to the elements. Most of all, it opens itself up to the skies.

Trying to blog

It took a while for me to write again because of what happened the previous month or so, when I was trying to clean up my ancient beleaguered laptop. I had unwittingly deleted the software that allowed it to detect wifi for me to access the internet.  Which explained my long absence
from this blog.
But last Monday, when the screen of the old laptop started to flicker and die, and I could no longer write even a simple journal, I began contemplating the long barren days ahead and decided that the prospect of not writing for a long time was not simply unbearable, it was unacceptable. So, I put my foot down and allowed myself to drift inside the Glorietta to get the cheapest possible laptop that my last sinsilyo can buy.
This was how I managed to return here. I'm still getting used to this new laptop, which keyboard feels strange and unfriendly, the font on the screen still feel rather painful to the eyes.  
I think that getting used to this new laptop is just akin to getting used to a new job.  Painful at first but later on, you'll get used to it.  You still feel so unfamiliar navigating the new territory psychologically as well as physically, at first, but soon, I promise, you'll get used to it.  I've already been here for over five months and going.
Back to this new machine: the port of my old card reader, which was still functional in my old laptop, no longer works here, so, I might have to run back to the mall again one of these days to hunt for a new one.
I still long for the familiarity of old things, such us my old laptop, but soon, I'll move on to more exciting things up ahead.

Thinking of the Cats

When I came home last month, I was glad that some cats still managed to survive without me, thanks to the care of T. I was glad to greet Muffin when she came home very late from where ever it was in the neighborhood she was roaming.  But it’s only now, when I’m back here in Makati, that I realized I never really had the chance to go nearer and talk to the cats. 

Muffin, like most of the cats at home, had gone feral, anyway, so it was not a good idea to cuddle her. The last time I cuddled Muffin, she bit my hands, thinking perhaps it was part of the play.  She wasn’t aware that I was not a cat. But looking back now, I could have at least talked to Muffin. I could have at least watched her beautiful eyes, which reminded me of the   eyes of a priest or a general, the bright yellow discs in the midst of a pitch black fur that earned her the moniker, Batman Cat.

Now, I'm missing her.  
My mind was preoccupied with everything on my short stay home.  It was full of Upper B’la and its depressing condition. 
I was also moping over the loss of Oreo, who failed to return home weeks before my arrival. Titing told me Oreo failed to return home a week before her sister-in-law poisoned Titing’s cat and the cats in the neighborhood. I’m wondering if Oreo happened to wander in their area, as cats often do, and had unwittingly eaten the poisoned food they had prepared.

Oreo was a good cat. Three days before Pope Francis arrived in Manila, some boys had left three kittens at the door of the Inquirer office in Davao. That afternoon, some “rugby boys” were rounded up by the police and I was sad because those might be the boys I caught feeding the kittens.  
Isn't it the height of cruelty for the police to round up the boys who had the heart to feed the cats? Some school girls from Kapitan Tomas eventually found the cats, and one fetched a carton box to bring them home during dismissal time, but minutes after she was off carrying the carton of cats, we saw an angry woman accompanying her, furiously asking her to put the kittens back to where she picked them up.  We saw them at our office door. The angry mother said her daughter cannot keep the cats because she had asthma, but I did not believe her.

Three days before Pope Francis talked about mercy and compassion, I carried the three noisy kittens in a jeepney and realized you can actually tell the character of people by the way they treat a cat.  A woman who sat beside me, I eventually learned, had thrown numerous kittens in rivers and across Samal Island. The young guy across my seat found the kitten yucky though he did not want to show it.  But a skinny, middle aged man, gently called the cats, Miiing, Miiing.

Among the three cats, the yellow one we later called HenriMatisse was the survivor, for he voraciously ate the giniling I bought from the store to feed them; then, the black one we later called Oreo, awoke from her carton slumber and joined the yellow one.  The one who did not take interest in food, and which I initially thought was dying, was the grey kitten we later called Eponine.

Eponine, who proved to be the most intelligent among the three, did not survive when he was hit by a slamming door during a Low Pressure Area (LPA) wind in February 2015.  HenriMatisse, the cutest and the most human among the three, I left alone in B’la at the height of Pa’s ailment in Davao.  I always get this image of him, sniffing Oreo inside the catbag, trying to help Oreo out. I should have put him inside the bag, too, but I realized he’s been surviving well in the village, and bringing him along might disrupt the good adjustment he was having in the place. So, I carried Oreo all the way back to Davao, where Oreo pissed on my pants when we reached R. Castillo. I never found HenriMatisse after that and I've been aching for a yellow cat with an L-shaped tail ever since, that cat who once glided the terrace of a neighbor, perked his ears when he saw me, and had bounded the whole neighborhood distance in three leaps when I called his name.

Ja described Oreo as a cat no one could ever love, except me.  In fact, it was because Oreo was that kind of cat that precisely drew her to me.  But Ja was only looking at the color of the cat, which was black, with irregular splotches of yellow in between.  The yellow spots above her eyes made Ja want to get his black pentel pen to cover the spots with black paint.  But Oreo, just like the other cats, is endowed with grace of movement and an elegance innate to all cats.  She was also full of cat wisdom and intelligence. She became pregnant months after the Pope’s visit and triggered a cat population explosion in our struggling household.  What was funny and amazing about Oreo was she never mind feeding three generations of kittens on her breast at the same time, even if her milk was already drying out. 

This simple tribute is not enough to describe such a great cat as Oreo.

To Greet the Rooster!

I just can't get over the idea of Pam's herb garden on the 14th floor, where I spent the New Year hiding inside her room. As I thank the Monkey for an exhilarating year, I make friends with the Rooster to make this year a happier, healthier, more magickal one; but please, let us all survive this year, Rooster!  Give us your wisdom, your discernment, your talent; especially your unique way of turning up something when normally other creatures can't see anything! Give us that power to look and to see and to find the way out of anything that could constrain or oppress us.

Happier Times with Muffin

Yes, of course, but not really. Its properties showed that the picture was taken on December 31, 2015, no longer a happy time for the family but a really difficult and trying time. But it was quite a holiday for Muffin, who found the empty chocolate cake box a perfect place to rest.  She still had a lot of food to eat at that time, even if Pa, sick and bedridden, occupied all our attention. But eventually, Pa had to be rushed to the hospital, then, Eve moved him to the city, leaving the house empty most of the time; and Muffin and the rest of the cats pining for survival, except for Titing who continued to feed them! Now, I'm suddenly here in another part of the country, quite too far away. When can I ever go home to feed the cats?

White Abundant Light for Pa

I'm here on the second floor of this crowded fast food chain at a table directly facing the stairway, so that all the customers carrying their food-laden trays had to make eye-contact with me before they turn to the rows of tables to my left and eat in peace.  But it's very cozy here, a place conducive to writing (at least, to me), with a white ceiling light beaming directly above me and falling gloriously down upon my table. I plan to spend an hour or two here because I was told we have visitors at home and I don't feel like meeting people now that I'm fiercely craving to write--it's maddening, this desire to write is like demons to be appeased, you have to satisfy them because if you don't, you'd either die, get sick or go mad--but I don't expect anyone who has never experienced that to ever understand.
But the way the light falls upon my notebook page on this table reminds me of the white light at the hospital room where Pa used to spend time during his ailment. That was before the sisters whisked him off to Butuan with Ma. 
It was the largest and the most comfortable room in our hometown hospital, designed by a renowned architect who was the owner's son, with windows from floor to ceiling, and overlooking McArthur highway, where you can see buses, trucks and jeepneys on their way to Davao or Cotabato or the smaller towns in between.
The room, if you'd care to know, does not make you think of a hospital at all, with its abundance of light, and its plenitude of space, its tasteful curtains, which you can whisk away if you want to see the view, or whisk back if you don't, because you prefer the subdued light that can make you rest and relax.
The nurses, when they find you, are not as snotty there as they might be in the other rooms; they might even be a lot friendlier!  Pa and Ma and I were sitting there, looking out as we awaited the sisters coming home from Butuan the day Pa's ailment seemed to be at its worst and Pa, who was suddenly amiable and meek as a child, had been calling the name of his mother, in between moans of pain, in between the state of waking and unwaking.

Like Life Itself

It's the stairway I climb everyday. Just like life itself, it goes round and round and round in a never ending spiral. 
Yet, every time I climb it in the morning, I don't actually see it the way I'm seeing it now.  In the morning, I take it only one step at a time. All I see are the nearest steps before me, and the rails leading me to a slowly curving ascent, so slight and so gradual that I almost could not feel it. It's only upon looking down from the nth floor above that I get a glimpse of its shape below. Just like the series of days and nights that eventually form the seasons, and the seasons that gather into a year and the years that eventually form a lifetime, we hardly perceive them at first until we've gone a long way and we start looking back.

Dawn Mass

On the first day of the Misa de Gallo, I succeeded in dragging Nanay V. to hear the dawn mass at the Santa Ana church, which was quite far, but not too far from where we live in Makati. It was still dark when we arrived. The mass had not started yet but most of the seats in front, where I can get an almost magical view of the altar, were already occupied. Nanay dragged me to one of the last remaining seats at the back, where we managed to sneak our not so tiny bodies in a crowded pew. The church, old as it is, is rather small by modern standard, but look at its design and architecture! Think about how, at the height of the bombardment in Manila in the second world war, a mass of people had once flocked into this church to seek refuge. Outside, the statue of the Lady of the Abandoned beckoned.
How  I came to live here and knew about this church was a series of serendipitous encounters.  In 2011, I came upon a Palanca-winning essay about life in an old horserace track before the property owner finally caved in to the pressures of development. I set aside that essay for a while and moved on with my life until late this year, when I was called to work here.  Trying to figure out where and how I'd live, I traced the map with my fingers, ignoring Ja's voice behind me telling me I'd be living very near the old race track in Makati. Ja used to know the capital like the palm of his hand. Long after I arrived and already sleeping in my room, I can still hear Ja's voice faintly reverberating in my ears but I continued to ignore it. 
Until one day,  diligently thumbing through the stories in the Arts and Letters section, I was drawn to a particular story which had caught my eye.  It was a book of the author who wrote about the old race track! I started reading and came upon the old church on the Old Panaderos Street.
Days later, I came to meet an old timer who, as a young journalist, used to haunt the old race track for stories and who personally knew the writer of the old race track herself! 
We had dinner at the Makati Circuit, site of the old race track! Sometimes, when I think about these serendipitous encounters, I feel some magical forces working. I did not come here entirely on my own.  

Grieving over my SLR D5200

In deep anguish, I asked Ja why do people who are so uncaring, so loose, so irresponsible, who never gave their cameras a shit because they were always out there having a drink or chasing their  reluctant lovers, these kind of people, why were they spared? Why did it have to be my camera that the little devil had to pick up and hurl over his sister? I have taken cared of it since I had it in my hands.  I have always protected it, though, in this room, there was hardly any space for me; no space at all for anything so precious. For it was the not just a camera to me, it was a window to the world.  I used it to capture Life, which was often drab and dull and full of insurmountable odds. Life became more bearable because of it. 
But why did it have to be destroyed? And in such an absurd way? By a stupid kid who just barged into our room, thinking our room was a playground, and in the usual spat with his sister, suddenly climbed up to my deck and hurled my equipment to her? 
"It’s one of life’s greatest ironies," Ja replied.  "It makes me seethe with fury," he added, to comfort me.

Still, I’m bringing this question to God. Why does it have to  be me? Why?!

Dear Karl and Sean

I'm in the city of stone carabaos. I realized this as soon as I saw the beautiful creatures lining here in front of me, black as charcoal, not the muddy black of real carabaos we passed by the rice fields in Kialeg, but dark-night black, the whole clan of them, from baby carabaos to mother carabaos, artistically rendered, slim and shapely and in style in a garden fronting the bookstore, where I walked a good seven kilometers to find.  Walking for me here is an art of reclaiming the space I have lost, and the sight of stone carabaos reminds me of the flock I once had a glimpse of, as I was passing by Liguasan Marsh on my way home from a coverage. I saw a flock of 10 to 20 of them, all working carabaos and all of the same size, looking small against the expanse of the Marsh landscape.  It was the peak of the planting season and the scene was something that Ja would have described as a  David Lean's rendition of a landscape. I was in a bus.  I haven't seen a flock of carabaos that many occupying the same landscape before, that's why, it fascinated me.  
In the rice fields of Kialeg, only one or two carabaos can be seen at a given time, no matter how the town boasts of itself as the province's rice granary.  But we, too, do not live in Kialeg.  We are just passing by, no matter how much I call it my home.
As a journalist, the Marsh has fascinated me in both its scale and its vastness; and although it may not have known me, I feel the Marsh is part of me because it is part of the entire landscape I call my home. I will always be attuned to its ramblings. 
Here,  the stone carabaos stand un-moving for hours, even as the gardener turns on the sprinklers to water the rosemary, the tarragons and the grasses around their unfeeling hooves. I remember the herbs I planted at home and the angle of light by the window which always made me want to read. I think of the cats, and the space I left behind. I think of you.

Sunday while I’m trying to do some washing

I hear someone belting your Nonoy Zuniga songs in the neighborhood. In one of the houses, though I can’t tell which one, the man’s voice drifts, singing the lyrics in raw Tagalog. The voice is a mellifluous one, which, when scaling the high notes, tends to fade. I've become keenly aware of the ravages of time and broken dreams in the singer's voice.  This is my second Sunday here. I am inside a tall black gate that protected us from the neighborhood. To our right somewhere, as we come out the gate, lies the bank of the Pasig river.  I can see the grime-covered skinny feet of children playing outside the fence. I remember how, back home, we would look forward to our songs by now. Sean has outgrown us lately, so there's only the two of us to drop by the Booksale first to find some old copies of Harper's or The New Yorker. Then, we would take a seat at the nearest KFC, where you would take out the notes containing our song numbers, reviewing them one by one, while I read the magazines. Now, I'm here alone, watching the video of you singing Paul Anka’s Times of your Life on my phone. I see very clearly now how your shoulders sag, and how your chest heave deeply as you gulp for breath in between your song lines. I want to go home.

This one, I’d surely miss

Cordoned off the seats reserved for government officials and priests, we were huddled in a small corner near the speakers, I, trying my best to stretch the limited capacity of my camera to capture the scene unfolding before me. When I told them I’ve been scolded by the PSG for going over the line to get a closer picture of the marble tablet etched with the names of those who died, Boyax only smirked, rolled his eyes; while Keith looked up at the starless night. Their gestures told me they have totally resigned themselves to faith, they have stopped trying another trick, what can you expect?  As we crouched over, reviewing our shots, Boyax had helped me find the good ones that would do and the bad ones that had to be discarded. Kill your babies, as Ja used to say. 

Then, I began telling myself, this one, I’d surely miss.

My good old days pretending to be a photographer would soon be over. But in the past months—or a year or two that I’ve been doing it—had been a fruitful one. It was an apprenticeship of sort. I had had a lot of lessons on the job. Unlike sitting on the bench, scrawling notes, I loved being with the cameras, to be at the forefront of things as they happened, to frame events through the lens I was holding. I got shouted at, and shoved away,  at times, but it was part of the game. I loved to be among this ragged, throbbing crowd with all the equipment they carried and adored.

Once, at the height of the campaign, failing to get myself in the middle of the action, I had shouted my questions from under the tripod (it was that crowded), still aiming through with my camera. The would-be President had to look up and down the jungle of bodies, limbs and equipment to answer my questions.

I often heard of the arrogance of some photographers against some newcomers.  But this crowd of photographers (where I felt I belonged) had readily welcomed me, allowed a small inch of space for me to stand, or crouch, in this too crammed world of photojournalism.

Then, I stopped bringing my camera. It proved too bulky, I’m afraid, in situations which demanded from me agility and lightness; situations that demanded most of the strength left in my weakening body. Covering the president has always been an exhausting job that requires us to stand for very long hours, skip meals, write stories on the phone, as fast as we can.

Soon, I may no longer be doing this anymore. I will always look back to my days among the photographers as one of the most memorable days of being a journalist. It allowed me new perspectives of telling stories; opened my eyes to a different medium, a medium that is more physical and more demanding of strength and alertness than the one I’ve been used to. 

It allowed me to be myself, to go against rules and conventions, to try new angles, new worldviews, and even get dirty, doing it.

Leaves

I looked up to see the leaves of the durian tree days after we brought Pa home.  We were still in a state of shock.

It was the year of the severe drought and a clump of durian fruits have been growing abundantly above us. But the heat was so intense that in the afternoon, we can hear the fruits falling on the ground. We were worried that the tree won’t survive. We painstakingly watered it, just as we nursed a tiny ginger plant struggling to survive in a pot just a couple of steps nearby.  But sometimes, love can kill. I discovered one morning the abnormal wetness of the soil in the ginger pot, and discovered my sisters Eve and Ione, and even Titing, the house help, lavishing it with water. 
“You’re killing it,” I said, seeing consternation on their faces. “Water it only once a day.  Too much love can suffocate.”

To my surprise, they listened. The plant only got just enough water that it needed; and soon enough, it was growing well. Rona, the wife of Eve’s driver who came by for a visit had collected the fallen durian fruits, because they were so small and beautiful, and would look good on a Christmas tree.

But Christmas was still so far away. It was still after Easter, which like in the previous year, we spent inside a hospital. As soon as we arrived home, we made Pa lie on a bed we put right in the sala. We brought a pile of pillows to prop him up but we could never make him rest because he always wanted to move. It was as if there was no position comfortable enough for him. His daughters, whom he resented for being girls, had a hard time coping.  He made us wish we had a brother. From the sheer physical strain of lifting him and helping him to bed, an act that had to be repeated over and over again until our own bodies threatened to collapse, we began to wish we were men.

Stepping out of the house, I found myself under the shade of the durian tree. I looked up to see the leaves, and saw the blue sky instead.

The way I see it

The previous year, when Pa’s symptoms had petered down a bit and then, were gone for a while, I used to go home almost every week to see how he and Ma were coping. 
Pa would be too surly, and would harangue me with insults that reminded me of an unhappy childhood. Instead of being shaken, I’d take the chance to roam around the neighborhood with my camera, scouting for good pictures. It was the year of the drought, the strongest El Nino to have hit this part of Asia, and I would reach as far as the neighboring sitio of New Dumanjug and further up to the next barangay of Upper B’la to take photos of the grasses that had browned and turned to powder under the coconut trees.

One day, I came back after sundown to show him some of the photos. As I was doing it, I was bracing for what kind of insults and hurting words he would again hurl at me.

“Unsa na (What are those)?” he asked about one of my shots. “Lubi (Coconuts),” I said. “Nganong nagtuwad (Why are they upside down)?” he asked. “Because that’s the way I see them,” I said.

Then, as we scanned my other shots, he also saw another picture of coconuts against the blue sky. “Why are you shooting them?” he asked in Bisaya. “Because they’re beautiful,” I said. 
For him, who spent his whole life as a coconut farmer, the sight of coconuts must be as common as the calluses in his hands.
But at that moment, staring at my shots, he did not say anything.

His silence punctuated everything.

Home with the Cats

I’m the only one who comes home now; which is quite ironic, because I’m also the one who will soon be going away. But perhaps, I am not going away at all, because I will be carrying this place with me where ever I go; and in that case, I would always be here even if I would be in strange cities like Manila.

I often arrive here towards sunset, with not enough time to catch the last rays of the sun after I make a roll call of all the cats. These days, I often find most of them missing but when they’re here, the cats, starting from the dear yellow-spotted black matriarch named Oreo—looking gaunt now because of poverty and neglect—would all come gingerly or with great hunger to greet me at the gate. Then, we would talk about the old times, when they were fat and there were plenty of food around, and we are not yet leading such diasporic existence as we are doing now. Our stories are full of longing. Sometimes, I would arrive when it’s already dark, and I would open Titing’s knot at the gate, which is very hard to untangle, and they’ll rush towards me, no longer in attack positions as if I were a stranger, but with great hunger for food and human company.  
Once, I’m inside, I’d put the keys into the doorknob and when the door opened, I’d grope my way upstairs as I enter the darkest room of the house, where I’d turn the main switch to turn on the light.  All the while, I would talk to the cats, silently wishing that I could spend the whole time here with them, so that they will no longer starve; except that, I’d be thinking in retrospect, if I’d do that, I’d be out of my wits thinking where to get the money to buy our food? So, I console myself with thoughts about my work, although my work increasingly scares me these days. 
I dream of the day when I can finally be free to read my books and write my stories.

I’d spend the rest of the night with the cats, sometimes, reading aloud some of stories from my old New Yorker magazine before the rapt inattention of my captured audience. In most times, I’d skip dinner. To tame down the pain caused by my stomach ulcer, I would bring along biscuits or oatmeal, because the point is, there are only two people who can make me cook dinner and I have left them in the city. (I’m referring to my boys, who are not with me.)

So, spending my time alone with the cats, I’d long for the taste real food, just like what I used to have when Mother used to be here. Mother, however, had ceased to be Mother; we were supposed to switch roles now, except that, I’m not really as financially stable as a daughter, which means, I might not make a good mother to her. A good mother should have milk for her children, a steady flow of cash to bring food on the table, has a busy kitchen, with reliable househelp buzzing about. A good mother would not have anxieties about money, she is already well-provided for, and cash always flows towards her direction. So, aside from being able to take care of her ageing Mother and sending her sons to very good, highly-reputable schools, a good mother always has enough food for her cats.

I don’t have them so I will have to go away for a while.