I woke up in the darkest dawn
And found it was not Christmas.
The boxes were all gaily torn
And colors hid in darkness.
A street child’s Christmas
Memories of the monsoon trail
we sang on trails then
our throats were quenched by rains.
climbed cattle fences, i recall
i caught your fall, your pain remains.
we danced on bridges,
and struck the moon at midnight.
we starved on hikes, you held my hand
and we survived on starlight.
Licuan, Abra
April 25, 2008
(with revisions October 29, 2013)
A precious gift from the Alhambras
Those who stayed for extended periods in the old Kamuning house invariably noticed the books. Four tall book cabinets higher than a grown man (two in the living room, two upstairs), and additional bookshelves scattered all around the house, contained hundreds of titles, when we young siblings still lived together with our parents under one roof.
This huge assortment of books, pamphlets, monographs, and a Britannica set (1968 edition) even had a name: our parents called it the “Pio Verzola Library” and had the most important volumes stamped and tracked with a card pocket at the back of each book. My mother had some library training, and so we kids were taught that the books at home followed a system similar to what we followed in the school library. Continue reading “A precious gift from the Alhambras”