I am moving away from home.
Away from clanging pots and pans
of morning rush, from all the sizzles of
preserves deep fried in ancient cooking oil. From
the sudden clings and clangs of plates being
washed nearby to the ticks and tacks of
the old-fashion clock in our living room.
Away from the meaningless yapping of my
mother and how she babbles about my soiled
clothes scattered on the floor that she ends
up washing, the long winding hours of looking
after the store and even away from the morning
routine of my grandmother waking
me up for school or from a bad dream.
Away from the smell of sinigang cooked
for dinner, the sour smell of boiled sampalok
and singkamas and from the familiar
face waiting patiently behind the battered green
door every night.
I am moving away from home and into
the strangeness of age. With no sinigang to
eat for dinner. With no one to
wake me up from a bad dream.
I am moving.
Away.
Hoping to find a familiar face waiting
behind the polished wooden door when
I get home late.
—
Sums is a graduating English major by day and a majestic, black unicorn by night.