How Would You Speak of Love When Language Dies? (Volume I)

I. Of those that speak of oranges and meals

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For all the oranges I never learned how to peel.

For the meals I refused to eat.

"I love you. I want us both to eat well."
— Christopher Citro on his poem,
OUR BEAUTIFUL LIFE WHEN IT'S FILLED
WITH SHRIEKS

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Entry I.
THE STORY OF CLEMENTINE AND HER FRUIT BASKET

The grandfather clock in the dining hall never stops ticking. And you wonder why it never stops when you've always wanted time to freeze when Mother comes home.

Today, it strikes six. You walk through the door of the dining hall. Mother is sitting at the far-end of the twelve-foot-long table. You see a basket and a roasted lamb in the center and you realize, Mother is home.

The aroma of roasted lamb fills the room. It smells as if Christmas is around the corner. Well, the calendar says it's only a few long carol nights before Santa comes to town and grants your wish for the eve, but tonight, Mother is home.

It's almost as good as Christmas now that Mother is here. The grandfather clock strikes six every day, but Mother isn't always at the end of the dining table every time it strikes six. And you can only distinguish when Mother is home when the hall smells of all citrus, herbs, and peony flowers—from her perfume.

Tonight, Mother is home. She wears that red turtleneck top she only wears when December comes near. Now, you feel like Santa's almost there to fully grant your Christmas wish. Or maybe the Tooth Fairy finally accepted your bargain for a wish instead of a money gift for Christmas—after all, the morning you woke up the other day, the tooth was still under your pillow and there was no quarter.

"How was your day today, Clementine?" she asks from the far-away end of the long table with her voice echoing across the hall.

Oh. Maybe next Christmas you can wish for a shorter table. A circular table with a lazy Susan will do. Or maybe for it to break in half so Tito Greg can shrink it to about four feet long because he likes carpentering. At least Mother won't have to almost shout when talking to you. Maybe that's why she rarely talks to you over dinner—despite the fact that she only comes home twice a month. After all, it's straining to talk to someone at the end of a twelve-foot-long table.

"Good!" you say as you peel off the skin of the tangerine messily. With its juices splashing all over the white tablecloth. From afar, you see Mother peeling hers cleanly. With its rinds fully off its slices.

"Good," she only repeats. Then silence envelopes the frigid dining hall.

You freeze when you see the grandfather clock striking quarter to seven and you realize that all you've done is peel off the skin of the orange and answer a word to Mother as she sits there with nonchalance painted all over her face. And you start to hate the grandfather clock more for always ticking so fast.

"Lacey, hand this over to Clementine," Mother says to Maid Lacey, and the next thing you know, a plate containing freshly, cleanly peeled two tangerines and a neatly sliced lamb's portion is on the right side of yours.

"I'll be going, Clementine. I'll see you again in two weeks," Mother adds as she picks up the plaid coat off the rack and smiles at you before glancing at the grandfather clock once more. "Manong shall be outside already."

Now she walks away from the dining hall. And leaves you empty-handed—not even a kiss goodbye. Except for the two peeled tangerines.

So you realize, Mother was home.

And now the far-end of the twelve-foot-long table is empty. She has barely touched her plate. It was empty too. The only thing she did as she sat down on her seat was peel the skins of two tangerines and slice a portion of the lamb for you.

There's a huge basket of fruits—supposedly for a family of five. But every time Mother was home, the fruits only rotted in a week or two because you refused to eat oranges without Mother sitting at the end of the table. Because you believed Mother loved oranges and fruits so much that she named you after one. Yet at the dinner table, whenever the grandfather clock strikes six, she barely even looks at you. Ironic for someone who loved clementines so much that she barely smiled at Clementine.

There's a huge roasted lamb—supposedly for a family of three. But every single time Mother was home, she barely even knew what it tasted like. And at the end of the day, only a portion of the lamb gets onto the plate. Only either when Maid Lacey or Mother slices it for you. Because you, a seven-year-old Clementine, never even loved roasted lambs that much. You wanted to try breaded pork chops for dinner, but Mother never knew. She had always been stuck with the memory of you, as a five-year-old, complimenting a Michelin-star roasted lamb dish on the television. But she never knew you didn't like them.

For tonight, Mother was home, but you didn't get to tell her that you wanted to try those Japanese pork cutlets because the grandfather clock didn't stop ticking.

For tonight, Mother was home, but you forgot to tell her that you only love oranges and all the fruits when they are shared; that the supermarket guys packed a fruit basket because they know a family is sharing each fruit inside—an apple for daddy, a banana for grandpa, and an orange for Mother. You forgot to tell her that perhaps a fruit basket can also work for a family of two—because maybe she doesn't know it yet—but never for a family of one because there is no such thing.

Because you knew, first-handedly, that a fruit basket doesn't work for a family of one. Because now, you've got two plates of tangerines. One with messily peeled tangerines and the other with cleanly peeled tangerines. And you see, even four oranges can never work for a family of one.

Because there... is no such thing.

So, you hand over the messily peeled tangerines to Maid Lacey. Because at the very least, eating the tangerines the one Mother has peeled feels like she was home.

Even if you had always wished to learn how to peel them by yourself, you pray that you never do. Never. Because that means you'll forget what it feels like to have Mother home.

Now you sit there and eat and not give the grandfather clock a glance anymore because you don't care at all now even if it ticks faster. God, you even pray now for it to tick faster so that Mother can finally come home again and Santa can already grant your wish for Christmas.

Because love only visits the house when the grandfather clock strikes six. And it leaves quarter to seven.

Because love only embraces you when you're sick. And sometimes you pray that you get sick from all the tangerines so Mother can finally come home again and give you more tangerines. And she'll never leave again.

Because Mother will come home.

Mother was home. But Mother is home.

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Entry 01
The Story of Clementine and her Fruit Basket