THE PAINFUL JOKES OF TIME

We used to walk the rustic, graveled road lined with shrubs covering the coconut trees which leads to the school where she teaches. She holds the worn bag containing teaching materials while on my shoulder, slowing my pace is an old knitted basket laden with notebooks, spoons, forks, plates and a lunch box filled most of the time with fried anchovies, sliced tomatoes, and salt. Every morning of work days we do this, a ritual for six years.

That was thirty years ago when I was still in the elementary. Those were the days when every Friday afternoon, we walked briskly home. We knew that the next day, it would be Saturday. A day of little rest, for she would go to the market and buy supplies for us, while we, kids, would do our chores, cleaning the weathered house. In the afternoon, I would be in the rice field helping my grandfather.

Often times, I see her seated near the window, looking far away. I would ask why, but she would give her most reassuring smile and she would answer, she’s thinking about my future. After which I would also assure her everything will be all right. Father has left us when I was three years old.

This memory comes when I see young kids scrambling to school. I remember her, my mother, who died when I was in second year college.

There were no computers and cell phones then. Every week, I would find a letter she has written reminding me to study hard, folded neatly together with the bills for my allowance. I augmented that by working part time singing in bars, strumming a Lumanog Guitar. One man band was the fad, then, and I had to practice my repertoire after my classes in the afternoon.

I can’t count the times I cried and sobbed during her funeral, the feeling still fresh today. During that time, I would recall how she worked so hard, being the mother at the same time father of the family she ever loved.

This memory comes vividly so often. Today, it did. I can only say a silent prayer and accept life has its own twists and turns caused by time.