The Two Houses

1988. Tondo, Manila.

The rain had made the ground slick and muddy, but at least the smoke had already settled, the last of the ashes were blown off by the wind that came with the storm. The heavy pour left shallow pools of water in the uneven road and as the sun shone, they sparkle like holes of light. I walk past many of them, and as I came nearer to each one, I see the cloudless blue sky reflected in the puddles.

Its late in the summer, and Habagat, that ruthless warm wind had made his way to the city. And early. Thanking him, I pull out a smile that from within my heart and splashed around the puddles, skipping lightly at each one. I wonder why I even can be this cheerful and nonchalant.

The fire took half of grandma's house, a third of my things, and May's life. I am now on my way to my parent's house, where she was being laid, for she had been loyal to us for fifteen years, and in our hands she died, this was the least we could do, Papa says to me, much to Mother's distaste. She insisted to send May's body back to GenSan to her family. I remember Mother saying it was a big trouble since we were just cleaning up from the fire, and were moving Grandma's remaining things to our house which was in the same village.

I don't notice the crossing where the road split into two and I took the left by habit. Then I remember waking up the other night to the sound of an explosion, and from the distance the sky had turned red, the smoke like a black knife piercing through the red vastness of the sky. There's nothing to go back to over there. The roof had caved in, windows broken, the walls dyed with stains of heat. Filthier than the muddy road was the once so beautiful house, not even my tears could wash away the fire's mess, so I don't cry. But Habagat could, and he did.

The house I grew up in, the little manor, wood and stone fashioned in a way of the colonial period, much like the cluster of Filipino houses around it, littering the bank of the river to the west, it was beautiful, but it burnt the other night. I saw it yesterday morning, after the storm. It was a lonely sight, and the overcast sky yesterday had nothing to do with it. Half of it burnt down, but it won't do as a house anymore, I'd have to live with my parents uphill, in that majestically decorated prison for the rest of my life.

So I doubled back to the crossing and took right, bringing the flowers for May. Carrying a big pot of chrysanthemums and lilies, I look forward and walked hastily to my house, I've been wasting enough time already, thinking worthless thoughts and thanking the great winds, Mother was too old to scold me, but I still melt under her disapproving gaze. There were a lot of things to do in the family house.

I see people coming out of their own houses to clean up, others already halfway done and others talking among themselves, of course there's the fire, and the storm, it was hell, May the helper was gone, such misfortune befalling the Mercados. The storm was the fortune, I reply to them in my head. Hearing enough, I just look forward, doubled my pace as if I had no time to listen so that they would not talk to me. I would not know what to say, I've got enough sympathies already, though not directly, but I hear them. And it was not as if I am that desirable of a daughter as my relatives always point out when I am not around for family dinners and gatherings... more often than not I do not go. I choose not to go for that reason.

Gladly, nobody spoke up to the imperfect daughter as she passed by. Not even May's friends who I also know from the lower blocks down the street Emily, Maris and Divina... Would they go? Can they even just take a step inside the compound? If that meant they be smothered with unnecessary criticism and rejection? But May was there... how I wanted them to show up, to not care at all just to see May for the last time, just to be there for the sake of the dead... but it's a decision I cannot make for them.