Anita the Bonita of the compound, the
budding and the fairest of them all, no one
could ever forget you or your smooth locks
that touched your shoulders. Not even your
mouth that only whispered, your brain that
only contained happy thoughts. Your
gracefulness had captured the hearts of
many macho men. And a man had the
opportunity to ask for your hand but you
were turned off, Anita. My god, by such a petty
thing! For that itsy bitsy grain of rice on his
cheek. For that teeny weeny grain of mistake,
you called the wedding off. For that solitary
minute blunder could cause a huge
destruction, correct? To yourself, and to the
nature of how your children will be raised by
such an embarrassing social blunder. But life
has its own unique irony. For being too picky,
somebody in the dark stole a kiss on your
young cheeks. And you didnât even know
that bastard. Oh, didnât they say, âmarisiâ?
They didnât because you were too charming,
not a single soul ever hated you. You were
Miss Congeniality. And now to make it worse,
your conventional family forced you to get
married. Because your cheek has been
devirginized. You didnât want to, Anita. You
were virtuous but you werenât a rebel. And
that man, that kisser had agreed on chopping
all the wood and fetching the water only to
show you and your mama and papa that he was
the appropriate man for you. You were
virtuous. You were obedient. So you obeyed
to marry him. You taught children on another
island. And you had to travel by boat every
week to spread literacy and love for nature.
But it wasnât hard at all. Wasnât that your
passion? Then you gave birth to three
daughters, to a son, and to a baby boy who
died. That was terrible. But then there were
three more daughters so it was not that
terrible after all. Life takes something away
and gives something instead of what was
lost. Life is such a spoiled brat. That kisser
became a fine provider of beatings to your
children. And became an alcoholic. But he
was always right. Because he was the
âdisciplinarianâ. All your properties and
animals had to be sold so he can drink. But
your cash ran out so you begged your family
to give something so he can drink. You were
the most adored daughter, werenât you? But
why did they close the door in your face?
Then, your female child, Belinda, got married.
But she didnât leave. She stayed with you as
not a soul could ever separate her from you.
From her source of food. For her, for her
baby, and for her husband. It feels amazingly
good to have dependents. And your girl,
Bernadette. She was intelligent. But you
couldnât send her to school. So you asked
your sister if she could, please, send your
young lady to the university. âShe will do all
the laundry for you.â And ding-a-ling-a-ling
Another bell rings. Nita, your other Bonita is
intelligent, too. But sending her to school was
too costly. So you asked your brother if he
could, please, help your lassie to go to
secondary school. âShe will do all the dishes
For you.â Your insides ached to be separated
from your kids. âCome back, come back,
Reneboy.â You softly prayed for your son to
be better. But he was becoming like his father.
A prisoner inside a bottle of whiskey. And
your other baby, Marjorie. A malnourished
child who rolled on the marble floor became
blind after 6 oâclock in the evening. But the
sum of what you could give her were kisses
and tomatoes as a result of what you could
afford. You were walking in the rain, soaking
wet. And nobody ever shared an umbrella
because they liked gaping at you from their
windows. But you didnât because,
right beside you was your beautiful Cleofe. So
you persuaded yourself that they were awed
by the sight of her, nay by your misery. You
judged yourself on how you and your
husband judged your minors except for the
last child. She was the sole child who can
spit words at you and at him without being
punished. Then you judged yourself because
you were educated and poised and yet you
got an occupation like this. And how your
siblings who were always bad, achieved
success and prosperity. But you never formed
an opinion of them when they merely looked
at you getting flushed down the toilet. Because
what you remembered were the
happy faces of your babies, as you
placed the loaf of bread on your empty
dining table during Christmas. What you
remembered were their excited faces as you
opened the can of three sardines for your
family of nine. Considering the total of those
little things that would make brats stomp
their feet, made your offsprings happy,
contented, and lucky, because of the fact that you
were their parent. You were an eagle thinking
you had chickenâs wings . You were educated
and finished Biology and English and licensed
to teach those subjects as well. But you
learned the skill of sorting dried fish by the
seashore and selling them to the rich. And so
you stayed in that field. And for your choices,
for the reasons that what you got. But mostly
for the sake of what you lacked, your
brothers and sisters laughed at you. The
wedding, you said, was never your choice.
The guy, you said, was never your love. But
how can you stop them from thinking the
opposite when he fathered your seven
youngsters? Why despite the whole lot of
these ill-fated events that happened, it never
shortened your patience. Never changed the
soft tone of your voice. The tone that could
stop a mad brute from hitting his young
brood. âNido, stop it,â you gently said. And
the terror came to an end. How did you feel
then, Anita, when he began to be ill on
behalf of abusing his liver? None of us really
know. Everything we can remember was that
you kneeled in front of your siblings to help
you in the middle of your householdâs crisis.
You begged and they answered you with a
question, âWhy did you join that man?â.
And they smirked without waiting for your
answer. He died. And the help youâve been
waiting for came. But itâs acutely late. Nido
canât rise from the dead anymore. Death in
the family comes with a reunion. Your older
babies went back home. Belinda now had two
kids, Bernadette was qualified to be an office
secretary, Nita got wedded, and your only son
was accepted as a soldier. Every part of them
looked cheerful. Shouldnât you be, too, for
them? Your second child brought you and
your younger minors to a new house on top
of the hill. To a place where the sun rose
every day similar to new memories. And set
every day similar to old ones. To where I
recall you waking me up each day, in that,
you knew I believed the goodness in watching
the sunrise with a hot chocolate in my right
hand and a ham sandwich in my left. To
where I can still call to mind you sewing dresses for
me, packed in a nicely wrapped package,
hidden inside my little closet. To where I
recollect you making leche flan and a melon
shake for me while I was watching the noontime
show. To where I can remember you scolding
me when I climbed the small tree thatâs
hanging on the cliff in front of our house.
Where you scolded me for picking your roses,
daisies, carnation, and orchids. You scolded
me when I beat the banana tree that
resembled a punching bag. Rebuked me for
captivating the flying ants to the interior of a
cassette tape holder. Reprimanded me for
revenging at my little cousin when he bit me.
But taught me to be more careful for myself
To talk to flowers and trees in the interest of
their feelings. And that they can also feel
pain identical to ours. Much the same as the
flying ants. Much the same as the babies.
Reproached my older cousin for scaring me
Favored me the most over my cousins and
sisters. You taught me to no longer hide
secrets from my mother no more when I
broke the vase. And you instructed my
mother to never punish me awfully. Because
the cost of the vase is not equal to the
cost of my childhood. And for the whole
amount of the mischiefs I did, and for any
reproofs I get from my aunts and from you,
And for each and every crying fit which
always led me to slumber, and at all times, I
woke up to you wiping away the tears that
wetted my temples, my ears, and hair. I
almost gave you heart attacks when I nibbled
a potentially poisonous bud, when I climbed
trees, when I locked the windows and
doors. You frantically tried to budge the
doorknob open. And you panicked at the
sight of me standing on top of the rolling
ottoman, trying to reach the kitchen cabinet,
purely to eat the sweet and spicy anchovies
And you had to hire a handyman so he could
break the opening. In the end, I gazed at you
in utter wonder and defiance. But you were
very patient. You never shouted. Never laid a
hand. You admired me for my girlish beauty,
for my 5-year-old wits, and for my
mischievous attitude just the same. The
neighbors declared that my appearance was
exactly like yours and you responded to them
In Tagalog, with a very funny Visayan accent,
âKaya sya pinangalanan ng nanay nyang,
Annie.â And at night, when we slept beside
each other, when the entire lights are off and
everyone was asleep, my imagination playing
tricks on me, and I stared at you inhaling
through your nose and exhaling through
your mouth. Your face turning into a
monster. But in the morning, I was, on all
occasions, woken up by my fairy godmother,
My flower fairy, my old angel, to sit beside
her and watch the sunrise. You never had
any decent sleep since the day I was born
until I turned seven. And you lost more sleep
when my parents had to take me away from
you. And even though you didnât have
any good nightâs sleep, but, every time, you
had a good night with me. We cried together,
Anita. I exclaimed a childish scream. I chose
you over my father and mother. But you
convinced me with tears flowing from your
eyes. You stated that only my dad can
provide for my education. But you havenât
convinced me. No more than an inch. And
neither have you convinced yourself. But I
was merely a child. And grown-ups won each
time. The entire summers since then started
with joys and ended in tears when I
vacationed at the house on top of the hill and
had to leave again for school. My joys
every bit of summer happened to be lesser.
My tears every bit of summer happened to be
lesser. I was becoming similar to any adults.
Cold-hearted and focused. And for a long
while, my vacations to the house on top of
the hill became lesser, too. I got lost. And
you and the rest of the clan never heard of
me. But I came back to the house on top of
the hill and observed a brand new sunrise.
And both of us made fresh memories while
reminiscing the old ones. But my stay was
only temporary. And again, the anguish was
so bad. But I was already an adult. I learned
to ignore separation anxiety. I planned to go
back for your birthday. But you died a month
and a half earlier. So I had to fly there a
month and a half earlier than what was
planned. I came back to the house on top of
the hill. The footsteps I made was heavier
than the usual. Because it isÂ
different this time. No more excitement. No
longer looking forward to pristine memories
with you. I knew that I will be looking back to
the old recollections of you. I was sitting again
in front of the house on top of the hill. I
viewed the sunrise but I wasnât alone. My
right arm hugging your ashes, and a hot
chocolate in my left. How can someone say,
how dare you say that you were never their
heroine. When you were completely mine.
And in times when I didnât possess parents,
you didnât make me believe I needed one.
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