My grandmother’s hands
once knew every thread from memory.
Not by counting,
but by feeling.
She would say,
“Every Langkit has a story.”
And I believed her,
because the Landap she wore
held more history
than the books we never had.
The Langkit used to sit proudly,
tight, bright, intact,
like the way our elders spoke
our words without shame.
Now I see it changing.
Not suddenly, but quietly,
like a thread that slips
when no one is watching.
A strand goes missing here,
another fades there,
until the pattern still looks whole
from afar,
but when you come closer,
you notice the gaps.
I tried to ask my niece
if she knew the meaning
of the designs we wear.
She smiled, soft, unsure,
said it was “just a design,”
just something nice for pictures.
And something in me
ached a little.
Because the Langkit
was never just decoration.
It was how we remembered
who we are,
without needing to say it aloud.
I still keep one Landap,
old, a little worn,
threads loosening at the edge.
I don’t fix it right away.
I let it be.
Because maybe
this is how we are now,
holding on,
but not as tight as before.
Still beautiful,
still ours,
but changing
in ways we don’t always choose.
And I wonder,
if one day
the Langkit disappears completely,
will we still call it ours?
Or will we only remember
that once,
we were woven
together.
Abdul Hakim A. Abdullah is a graduate student of the Master of Arts in English Language Teaching at Mindanao State University – Marawi. His works often explore themes of identity, resilience, and social inclusion, drawing inspiration from lived experiences within his community.