You said goodbye to Attorney Ramos when you clocked out. The solid pine doors of the firm were expensive, heavy under slim hands. But you are healthy. You take good care of your body. You pushed them open easily and walked over to your Jeep, a pretty white thing.
You drove to that gym in Sta. Ana, the one you don’t like. You always complain that it’s too crowded by the time you get off work. Still, you go inside, strip off your blouse, and swap the skirt for a pair of tight leggings. You grew up nicely, didn’t you? Wide hips, full lips, long legs. I could stare at you every day. I do.
You think getting a workout in, whenever you can after work, is more important than the long wait at the Pelotons. You’re such a good girl.
You were there for an hour and a half, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. I wanted to wipe it off you. I didn’t mind the wait outside your shower, listening to the water run until you were finished. There’s nowhere else I need to be. Want to be.
Fully dressed, you climbed back into your car, though you drove barely twenty minutes before you stopped at the grocery for salmon and kale. You paused by the produce section, eyes caught by the display. There’s nothing special about it. The mangoes were ripe, apples in a dozen colors. Next to them, plantains.
It’s funny, because you hate plantains, but you examine each bunch for the signs of perfect quality. When you were satisfied, you got back in your car and drove down to your house in Poblacion. When you got home, you tossed your keys on the coaster and your bag to the floor.
When you walked to the kitchen, your eyes passed over the place from where I watched you. Even if you knew about this window, it wouldn’t change anything. Even if this place was gone, even if you burned it, or cemented over it, I would find a way. I would follow you anywhere.
Your kitchen is a modern dream, sparkling white and costing a fortune. You fried your salmon and prepared your salad, and your husband will be home later tonight, so you put his serving in the fridge.
You have such a nice life. Such a good husband. But I know you still think of me.
I know, because you pulled out a pot and sugar to make minatamis, even though you make a face whenever the taste lands on your tongue. You always did. You served them up when they were done, soft and still steaming.
You brought two plates of it to the place from where I watch you. They’re the color of honey and just as sweet, though it was hard for me to taste them, back when I was sick.
You did the sign of the cross over your chest as you whispered, “I love you, mama. I hope you’re proud of me.”
You turned the lights off and retired upstairs. I love you too, my girl, and I am so proud of you.
Iona Mendoza is a 17-year-old senior high school student who has loved writing and reading since age six.