There are lines,
deep and symmetrical,
etched upon her face.
I trace each one with my eyes:
forehead, cheeks, mouth.
I see a face so like mine,
save that it is withered and worn
with years of strife and selfless giving.
Her eyes that see past me
were once dreamy and eager;
yet, never, in my foolish
and carefree youth,
have I looked into their depths,
to discern
what I might have meant to them,
or if they were ever proud of me.
I do not remember them crying,
only glinting with iron will.
Her gnarled and wrinkled hands,
smooth a handkerchief carefully,
delicately.
Those trembling fingers
once wielded power with a pen
but also wrote me
indecipherable love letters.
I remember the noise
they created on the piano,
discordant notes echoing
in the distance of years.
She is thin and stooped.
There is no sign of that ample bosom
I would bury my face in for comfort.
Her legs would not support her anymore.
Once they brought her
to dank and dirty marketplaces,
and to hilly suburbs
to negotiate acquisitions of prime estate,
I have now inherited unencumbered.
Her voice is hesitant.
It is tired.
It once sweetly sang me lullabies,
rang with authority,
snapped with temper,
rose in frustration,
soothed my pain.
I would never hear it hum softly
with the ancient sewing machine again,
nor call me sweetly for some errand,
or to dinner.
There will be no more of those long,
lazy afternoon conversations
at the dining table,
while partaking her favorite
rice cakes and latte.
I watch her breathing evenly
as she goes back to sleep,
her dreams perhaps bringing her
back to those pre-war tales
she would reminisce a million times,
while I listened in exasperation,
(and helpless amusement)
as their plots got taller,
embellished year after year.
I will forever treasure
these second-hand memories,
as if they were mine,
as if I were there with her.
I leave her lying there
with the chorus
of tree sparrows in her garden
faint in her ears;
and my last glimpse of her toothless smile
lingers beyond this half-open door
that I shut with finality.
Grace Lumacang is fifty-five years old. She teaches Literature at Father Saturnino Urios University, Butuan City, Philippines. In 2018, one of her poems was included in Mindanao Harvest 4: A 21st Century Literary Anthology edited by Jaime An Lim, Christine F. Godinez-Ortega, and Ricardo M. de Ungria. It was published by Far Eastern University.