We used to lie on a bed of grass beneath the dark auroras.
The stars whisper to us in their tiny, innocent voices.
Telling us names of constellations,
Orion, The Big Dipper, Cancer, Andromeda.
Their ancient counterparts whose names
we no longer understand.
Gravity,
with its soft hands firmly keeping us close,
near the bent knees of the heavens.
We enjoy the ordered chaos that the stars
present to us.
The laughter of the crescent moon,
The smile of the dark skies.
You have grown fond of the heavens,
its newness and empty beginnings,
astound you.
You felt the flapping of the wings of the wind
The secret gardens, the intricate language of birds.
You now speak a language I no longer understand.
Meanwhile
I,
remain flightless.
Grounded.
A metaphor with birds for wings.
Remind me what it’s like to say a prayer,
tell me what it’s like to be a bird.

The story seems to start at the end of each funeral.
The last whispers and faint hellos.
Each spoken word is like pollen of fond memories.
I walk closer, hesitantly
at the casket laid down
on a pedestal.
There is something about that box,
carefully chosen, measured,
chiseled,
and painted.
It is assuring to know that you stopped moving
so I could tell you with my presence,
and not with my lips,
that there is something
beyond the summit
in the green mountains of Mt. Batulao.
Your shell is the only thing that stands between me
and a hazy mirror.
Quite frankly, I understand now.
Your broken English interspersed with
Filipino words that I can vaguely comprehend.
The creases on your brow seemed to fade,
creating a knowing look on your face,
childlike,
that I haven't seen in a long time.

The sun set on Manila Bay,
like she always said.
She would recount the stories
of how the red sky reminded her
of a dream she had the night before.
Of how her father picked her up
at school when she was in the sixth grade.
And when her mother decided to patch and paint
the tattered walls, when her younger brother died.
Those were her kind of stories,
vague,
but very vivid.
No details. No names.
Anonymous.
That's how she wanted it.
Distance kept her free,
above the clouds
and away from pain.
She recounted, with great alacrity,
the time she realized that the Manila sun set
was an illusion made by pollution.
There is nothing there but dark clouds
from exhaust pipes and factories,
she would say.
I covered her eyes with my hands,
stood as close as I can get.
I felt her eyelashes on my palms,
like ants biting on my skin.
Her skin went from warm to cold
on the tips of my fingers.
I wanted to tell her something about the sunset,
I wanted her to illuminate the fragments of the past,
and revive the remnants of the present,
but no words came to my mouth.
I wanted her to feel something
familiar, childlike.
My hands slipped from the cliff-like bridge of her nose,
free falling into the jagged rocks of my empty pockets.
I slumped back on the bench and looked up at the reddish sky.
Its magic waning, its luster rusted on the edge of the copper clouds.
What's the matter David? Is there something wrong?
That was the first time she called me by that name since we met.
I smiled and gave her a knowing look.
Nothing really.
Its been a while.
How long has it been since we met? I asked.
Ever since I can remember, she said.
I smiled,
Let's go Teresa.
The sun set behind us,
and with it the shadows that hung over our heads.

He wanted to know what lurked in the shadows,
something mother was so afraid to reveal.
He often asked his mother
"Mother who was in there in the shadows?"
"Someone I used to love,"
she would often reply.
"Why would you keep someone you used to love
in the shadows?" he would often ask.
"One day you will understand my love,"
she would often reply.
As a child, he once remembered a man
with furry arms and dark eyes,
carry him through the kitchen
and out into the lawn.
The sound of his familiar voice,
the booming sound and low rumble,
it was laughter.
Then he was gone,
with no trace but a faint smell,
and a trail of shadows.
Broken bottles, blood stained sheets,
and wounded hands hid behind
his mother's smile.
"Where is he? Where is that man?" the boy asked his mother one last time.
His mother folded his clothes, like she always does.
"There he is...There he is in the shadows," she said.
She opened the closet, its darkness hugged her.
"Why won't you let him out?"
She put the folded clothes in the closet.
One on top of another, neatly folded and brushed.
"I turned him that way...I asked him to be someone else."
She went downstairs and washed the dishes.
A faint whisper was dangled by the wind,
knocked on the glass, and peered through the windows.
Plates clanged. Glasses were put down.
There was a wiping of sweat, a drying of wet lips.
His mother turned the faucet,
a drop of water turned into a deluge.
"Then you can turn him back!" the boy exclaimed.
His mother turned and held him by the hand,
the two went back upstairs into the bedroom.
The mother knelt by the closet, and took the boy by the hand.
She opened the closet slowly, its dark peering eyes entered the room.
The plain clothes, the checkered ties, and black pants
stood still in front of them.
"Let me tell you a story of a man I once knew," his mother said.