My mother told me how lucky I was to be Raul’s wife. Unlike her, I had chosen to marry my husband. “During our time, our parents decided whom we should marry,” she told me.”Teyi bagi kan, you are not a dwey and there is no sign of looking for a second wife in your husband’s face either.” This would always crop up in our conversations about her and my father. Although she never admitted it, she envied my freedom.
Yes, my mother was right. Even Maria, my high school friend, praised me every time I passed by her fish stall at the market. “You look younger every time I see you, Bea,” she said, waving her hands and inviting me to come closer. “Your husband really loves flesh. Ah, uhm, fresh! I mean, like these fresh tilapias, fresh tomatoes. But you look fresher than them. Don’t you?” And then she laughed in the way that irritated me. “Well, who would love to eat rotten food after all?” I answered, shooing away the flies that might ruin her fresh display.
Rowing Away
Fiction by Joy Rodriguez | March 22, 2009
I start my day with Subhanallah and feel the last bead of my pasbih with Allahuakbar. They agreed to forego the dialaga. The wedding is set a month from today. Baba said the mahr is more than generous enough.
They knew each other. From the moment they first laid eyes, he recognized her, and she him. Nothing would separate them; not even the war that had caused so much misery, which brought their once magnificent civilization to its tragic downfall. Nothing would interfere with their bliss. They were soul mates.