Tag: Reil Benedict Obinque

Bisan layo pa ang piggery trak ni ‘Nong Boyet, dungog na ni Bernard ang saba niini. Sa halos adlaw-adlaw niyang sakay niini sa upat ka tuig niya sa hayskul, nasayod na siya sa matag detalye sa saba sa trak: ang kagang-kagang ug tayaong makina nga daw gi-asthma, ang agiik sa ligid nga galugos og subida, ang iwik sa mga baboy sa likod sa trak.

Kon madungog na gani kini ni Bernard, dayon siyang mutindog ug mukapkap sa iyang bag aron siguraduong wala siya’y nalimtang gamit: notebook, ID, balonan, cellphone, ug guna nga hangtod karon ginapadala pa gihapon sa ilang maestro sa TLE aron gamiton sa gardening.

Apan karong adlawa, si Bernard wala nagdalag bag.

Iya rang gibitbit ang pinilo nga toga, ang kalo sa graduation, ug ang kodigo sa ilang kantahong graduation song. Mas puti iyang uniporme, mas plantsado ang slacks, ug mas sinaw ang hinirmang itom nga sapatos nga gisudlan pa gyod niyag kinumot nga dyaryo aron muiho ra gyod sa iyang mga tiil.

Nihunong sa iyang tungod ang piggery trak ni ‘Nong Boyet.

Ang katiguwangon ni ‘Nong Boyet daw sama sa gidrayban niining trak: gaubo, pasmado ang kamot, ug lugos makakita kung dili niini ipiyong ang mga mata.

Ang piggery trak dili iyaha. Panag-iya kini sa tiguwang nga intsik nga adunay dakong babuyan sa ilang Sitio. Apan sa pila ka tuig nga pagdrayb ni ‘Nong Boyet niini, nahimo na pud kini niyang personal nga sakyanan. Naniguwang na pud siya dungan ang trak.

“Oy, Bernard!” ni ‘Nong Boyet samtang gi-abrihan ang purtahan sa front seat. “Pagpagi nang lingkuranan dong kay na, maabugan ‘nya nang imong uniporme. Hastang puti-a ra ba.”

Nagkatawa si Bernard samtang gasaka sa sakyanan. “Maayong buntag, ‘kol. Mao na gyud ni ‘kol.”

“Mao na gyud ni, dong.”

Nilarga ang sakyanan.

“Nagdala ka’g pahumot? Basin manimaho kag tae sa graduation.”

Nangatawa silang duha. Ang katawa ni ‘Nong Boyet natapos sa usa ka hutoy.

Sa paglabay sa panahon, naanad na si Bernard sa baho sa mga baboy. Niadtong una, mao gyod ni ang rason nganong dili gusto makisakay si Bernard sa piggery trak bisan pa og ma-late na siya. Dili siya gusto munaog nga manimahog baboy. Apan nihit gyod ang sakyanan nga gaagi paingon sa ilang Sitio. Ang dyip pirme gahunong – bisan kahoy hunungan – hangtod mapuno kini. Ang habal-habal, dili mularga kon dili kini muguot, hangtod sa lubot na lang ang magpabiling gakapyot. Mahal ra sab mupakyaw. Maong napugsan si Bernard usa ka adlaw nga musakay sa piggery trak.

Si ‘Nong Boyet maoy namugos niya. Sa iyang kauwaw, ginapahunong na ni Bernard ang trak wala pa lang kini kaabot sa eskuylahan. Dili siya gustong makita sa iyang mga klasmeyt nga gasakay niini. Apan kinaugmaan, gihinungan na pud siya ni ‘Nong Boyet, ug kinaugmaan pa. Hangtod naanad na lang si Bernard ug anam-anam nga duol sa eskuylahan ipahunong ang trak.

“Mag-speech ka ‘dong? Naa kay honor?” pangutana ni ‘Nong Boyet.

“Wa ‘kol oy. Usa ra’y ribbon nako. Graduate.”

Nihutoy og katawa si ‘Nong Boyet.

“Duha diay. Naa pay ribbon sa parent diri o.”

“Basta nakagradweyt,” ni ‘Nong Boyet. “Muapas ra imong mama?”

“Maoy ingon niya, ‘kol.”

Apan sa tinuod, wala kasiguro si Bernard kung makaapas pa gyud ang iyang mama.

(To be continued…)

***
Reil teaches Calculus. He lives in Davao City.

Francis looked at the scars on his thighs as if seeing them for the first time, feeling the need to rehearse his response to all possible reactions. Pity. Shock. Disgust. He would squeeze his thighs together, like sealing an envelope of secrets. Some curious guy would part them gently the way one would do with the envelope flap he did not want damaged. The guy would examine the scars – keloid that spread across his skin, inching towards his knees but only touching them tangentially. Like some careless cartographer’s map, his scars enveloped his thighs without discipline, without any amount of beauty and symmetry, as if each extra skin was in disagreement with another. Raising his head, the guy would ask Francis, just as he expected, What happened?

This time, Francis would not hesitate to answer. He would not describe it as a childhood accident one night when the power was out and he was dumb enough to play with the kerosene. The guy would instead lie beside Francis and gently pull his face towards his chest where Francis could rest it, and with his trembling fingers tracing the hem of the thin, thin sheets where they tucked themselves in, Francis would take the guy to Sitio San Roque, where he spent most of his childhood.

Francis might be able to tell him several things about the place, but he would not want to digress too much, for digression had become his coping mechanism – an opportunity to piece together inside his head what he was supposed to say next or a chance to hesitate to tell the truth. He would strategically start at that moment when he sneaked out of his house the night of the fiesta to see the annual Miss Gay pageant.

How old were you then?

Ten.

Continue reading Etched

“Do you know I have had eighty-six books, apo?” he asked.

His muscles were weak enough to rock the rocking chair, or to extend and touch my hands to confirm I am there beside him. The sunset made his face shadowy, and his thin, grey hair orange. Too sad he couldn’t see the sun swallowed by the horizon when it was just in front of his house. I want to describe it for him, but I didn’t know how to.

“Do you know I have had eighty-six books, apo?” he asked again. I nodded, as though he could hear it. “Forty-nine days ago, it was eighty-six. Now, there’s just thirty seven left.” He paused to inhale. His breathing was so slow it alarmed me every time he did it. “When it reached eighty-six, I know I am dying. I’m so weak and, perhaps, pale. I decided to give them to everyone that passes by the house.”

Continue reading The Art in the Setting Sun