Sinigang

A short story By Maria Aubrey Villaceran

“So, what happened?”

She had finally decided to ask the question. I had been wondering how long my Tita Loleng could contain her curiosity.
I continued to pick out tomatoes for the Sinigang we were to have for dinner. I wasn’t usually the one who assisted
my aunt with the cooking. She preferred my younger sister, Meg, for I knew far less in this area—not having the
aptitude, or the interest, I guess—for remembering recipes. That didn’t matter today, though. This time, Tita Loleng
wanted more than just an extra pair of hands in the kitchen.

“Nothing much,” I answered offhandedly. “We did what people usually do during funerals.” I reminded myself to tread
carefully with her. Though I did not really feel like talking, I could not tell her off for she took offense rather easily.

I put the tomatoes in the small palanggana, careful not to bruise their delicate skin, and carried them to the sink.

“Did you meet…her?” Tita Loleng asked.

There came to me a memory of sitting in one of the smaller narra sofas in the living room in Bulacan. I faced a smooth
white coffin whose corners bore gold-plated figures of cherubs framed by elaborate swirls resembling thick, curling
vines. Two golden candelabras, each supporting three rows of high-wattage electric candles, flanked the coffin and
seared the white kalachuchi in the funeral wreaths, causing the flowers to release more of their heady scent before
they wilted prematurely. Through an open doorway, I could see into the next room where a few unfamiliar faces held
murmured conversations above their coffee cups.

“Are you Liza?” A woman beside me suddenly asked.

I was surprised, for I had not heard anyone approaching. Most of the mourners preferred to stay out on the veranda
for fear that the heat from the lights might also cause them to wither.

I looked up slowly: long, slim feet with mauve-painted toenails that peeked through the opening of a pair of scruffy-
looking slippers; smooth legs unmarred by swollen veins or scars—so unlike the spider-veined legs of my mom—encased in a black, pencil-cut skirt; a white blouse with its sleeves too long for the wearer, causing the extra fabric to
bunch around the cuffs; a slim neck whose skin sagged just a little bit; and a pale face that seemed like it had not
experienced sleep in days. The woman looked to me like she was in her forties—the same age as my mother.

“Yes,” I had answered that woman—the same answer I now gave to Tita Loleng.

I gently spilled out all the tomatoes into the sink and turned on the tap. The water, like agua bendita, cleansed each
tomato of the grime from its origins.

“What did she tell you?” Tita Loleng asked.

“Nothing much. She told me who she was.”

“What did she look like?”

“She’s pretty, I guess.”

She was. She looked like she had Indian blood with her sharp nose and deep-set eyes thickly bordered by long
lashes. Just like Mom, she still maintained a slim figure though she already had children.

The woman, upon seeing
my curious stare, had explained,

“I am Sylvia.”

All my muscles tensed upon hearing her name. It took all my self-control to outwardly remain calm and simply raise
an eyebrow.

My reaction caused a range of emotion to cross the woman’s face before it finally crumbled and gave way to tears.

Suddenly, she grabbed my hand from where it had been resting on the arm of the sofa. Her own hands were damp
and sticky with sweat. She knelt in front of me—a sinner confessing before a priest so he could wash away the dirt
from her past.

But I was not a priest. I looked down at her and my face remained impassive.
When her weeping had subsided, she raised her head and looked at me.