3, Talking To Picasso

The simmering day had become a wind bringing chill.

I had woken nauseated and so the departure had yet again been postponed.

Moving like an old woman, bent and slow and with each step the world spins.

Mimicked by Sister, I laughed as I stumbled.

I was asked to lie down in bed, coaxed to nap here and there, unable to sleep

In the heat, saying no to air-conditioned oxygen, flipping the channels instead, the nausea

Is like the sweat that mixes with water seconds after another shower.

I say “I love you” to Mother as she cares for me the way she does for her mother.

I think that this reversal of roles once again is always.

I had woken weeping about the dead.

Remembered more so this month, the days counted.

Talked to Mother about it as she rubbed my back and gave me a white wash cloth

For my tears running unchecked down my cheeks like the shower.

She said “I wish I could take your pain”

While I hiccupped about what would cure a heart that understands why it’s broken.

That was this morning.

That was this afternoon.

That was before this evening.

Now I move without sound.

My back straight once more.

Frail as the old.

Forlorn as the young.

I stand up now and ask Father “Do you have Scotch?”

As I look at his rows of bottles

He says “There, my Chivas.”

I say as I pull out a liter “I’ll take this.”

He says “That’s brandy. La na ka uban.”

I say “Even better.”

I take out the special brandy glasses and ask the nanny for ice for the Coke.

I pour for the dead and the just dead.

I sip.

I would offer you a sip but it might kill you.

Notice how the simmering day had become a night that is chill.

Do you notice that one smells the rain before it comes?

You and I are looking at the night sky, watching dark become darker

The wind now coming and the air becomes biting

There is lightning but no thunder.

Unlike earthquakes that sound like thunder before they come.

There are beeps of messages and the phone finally rings.

From the news.

They speak as if I can’t hear them--- Nagpaparabura---

They say that I am crying and crying.

Now there is thunder.

You and I are waiting for the rain.

Maybe then the tears would stop.

They all tell me that I have to hush and to stop crying.

It hurts them.

You sit on my feet.

70 years old and the baby.

I never had to worry about walking with you when you were a baby.

I would even drive with you to school and you and your brothers would walk with me

In the halls of UP, Mang Manny giving you bottled water for free.

You were the last to be taken out of our home and taken to this home.

I could not easily part with you.

You were always trying to escape from here.

They say to return to me and I was very far away.

Mother had to bail you out of jail here almost everyday when you were younger.

Driving you home, you in the backseat, being given a litany.

Then she would call me and say “Your son!”

Mother and Father would call me about your brothers “Your sons!”

You sit on my feet.

Your weight leaning on my leg.

Guarding always.

They look at us.

We are unmoving.

Except for my hand on your head.

Except for the tears.

Do you remember Mo?

Big head, saucer paws.

Christened Monet, passed away when Iman was just born.

It was Christmas when I returned and found out.

I had gathered you and your brothers close to me in the garage.

And it was just like this.

Do you remember Whiner?

The runt and liked taking bread from the hands of Malachai and Iman.

He was really Da Vinci and we tried calling him Davi.

It never took.

He was your Uncle Emil’s baby and favorite of Mommy, even Ate.

He just disappeared not so long ago.

Kidnapped and Father was sighing and kept looking.

Sister had kept on searching, knowing how it would end in this.

Exactly again like this.

And now your brother Van.

Christened Van Gogh.

Father’s favorite.

He had once jumped out of the van en route to Santiago.

Father was upset and searched and searched until he found him near the fire station.

Or was that Mo?

Maybe. Van also once went missing, following one of the cars and unnoticed.

Father went so quietly angry. Got drunk that night. Angrier when Van returned the next morning while he hugged him. Your brother was a chicken shit when it came to the sound of fireworks. The only one who would have to be brought inside the house during holidays. Last new year’s eve, he was all over me on the bench in the garden. I had laughed and he seemed to be laughing too. There was a picture.

A couple of nights ago he sat with me.

Just like you are doing so now.

We had talked.

Father had said his name just after Angelus…

There is something about how a name is said like a question hesitant

And you know that the name is dead.

I heard and I ran and said “No…No…No…”

He looked like he was just asleep.

I called his name.

Your brother just died.

And I want to tell your father.

Van was his favorite, too.

But I can’t.

My boy is dead.

It’s just you and me now.

Just you and me.