Ships | Kevin Moses BautistaPosted: January 29, 2012
It depends. The wife carried him like a statue, the kids, like a corpse. Either way she found him frozen at his study, wearing his everyday karsunsilyo, his eyes on the vast mangroves. When she found him she thought it was wonderful not to cry. When she found him she thought of painting the window as you would a blank canvas: of how it was to burn in this heat; of how his whistling made ships with masts and sails all white and stiff despite the winds; of how brown could mean a summer tan, or an afternoon coffee. When the kids grieved in their beds, she put her husband back to the very chair where he had frozen, and together, they weeded out the water lilies mantling the river.
First published in 2011 in Blinds: PANTAS Tomo IX