By Maed Rill Monte
Mama splashes cheap cologne all over your work uniform, affirms her reminders and you leave unkissed — some twenty years? Your face is darkened by the rooftop rising caught in the sun, after a burst of foliage, the dead, yellow leaves wedded into nipa roof, spiderwebs and fly carrion. I see the inner child, tense beneath the face mask, the face shield, and the fatherly features. He's upset today's another no-play day. There are mouths to feed, bills to pay, and a world he conceded to.
Maed Rill Monte writes from the Philippines. He lives a provincial life among kilometers after kilometers of vibrant rice paddies with books, music, and occasional internet.