Pagsasalitaan
By: Bekah, San Jose, California, USA
Come in your red dress and I’ll clean your dentures for you. Take this seat across from me. I’ll get a pillow for you to sit on. I’ll fluff it up and everything. I’ll make those noodles you always liked—the vermicelli ones with the soy sauce and sesame oil and veggies and chicken that you passed down to your daughter who passed it onto me. How’s the afterlife? Do they have good food there? My mom tells me to pray every night before I go to bed. She tells me to talk to you. Do you hear me? I think I heard your laugh in my dream last night. It sounded like church bells. Here, take another spoonful. You look so skinny. The last time I saw you you were so thin I could see the rivers carved beneath your skin and you wouldn't open your eyes. Are you getting enough exercise? I hope there aren’t too many inclines in heaven. I don’t want you to wear yourself out. Maybe that’s why you were buried on top of a hill—so every time we go to visit you, I’m reminded that you always wanted me to stay healthy. Do you want seconds? We have dessert. My mom taught me how to make turon. She told me that you would put langka in it. Sometimes she talks about you as if you’re still alive. She looks more and more like you every day and sometimes I swear I see you in the lines of her face. Careful, it’s hot. Don’t burn yourself. Do you see how your daughters tell their children “I love you?” The first time you told your children that you loved them was on your deathbed. They don’t know they’re making up for the hurt you left behind. Is the turon good? I made sure it was crunchy. Fried just right. I got the overripe saba like you told me to. Won’t you stay a while? It’s a common misconception that grief gets smaller over time. That it shrinks the further you grow away from the pain. But that’s not true. Grief doesn’t go away or get smaller. It stays the same. It’s stagnant, always there. Do you want to take home the leftovers? You can save them for baon tomorrow. Grief does not get smaller. The world just expands around it. And my world is so big now. My world is so big but you’re still the same size. You’ll stop by again, right? I’ll cook for you again. I’ll cook for you any time. Make sure you eat your leftovers tomorrow.
Bekah Lazar (they/them) is a self-acclaimed professional dog walker and avid scrapbooker from the Bay Area, California.
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