Humid Rain

The tropical rains in the Philippines were like showers with the handle all the way turned. You would see the rain falling through the window or opened door, and soon enough the rain would collect and level into a large lake. Rain meant that we got to stay bundled inside our homes and eat warm Champorado that had swirls of rich condensed milk with those who I loved the most. When the rain came with aggression and flooded, people would bring out rafts and boats and swim through the water with laughter on their faces.

I remember how I would watch my cousins outside in the rain and beg my mother to join them until she let me. I would look up into the sky and grin, trying to count how many raindrops were falling, but the possibilities were endless. The air was humid and warmed me through the rain. The rain was falling, falling, falling, and falling.

Unforgettable Summer

The neighbors and their children. Loud, dramatic, and nosey. Young, confident, and hopeful. Summer was full of opportunities and surprises, blooming like a flower in the spring. People were moving in and out of the neighborhood, and there were always children that were playing outside. I still remember making friends with my neighbors throughout the summer and the way the air smelled warm and bright.

 There was a girl whose hair was the color of lemons, she would go outside late at night when it was cold and quiet and sing songs I did not know the name of. Sometimes she would look at tree leaves with fire in her head and play with Barbie’s like they were unbreakable. There was also another girl – a neighbor whose house was one away from mine – with eyes that pierced right through me like a million needles whenever I did something she didn’t like. She told me she wanted to be the president one day. She often yelled at her younger brothers who liked to purposely annoy her. Then there were two sisters who always had smiles on their faces that looked just like their mother’s.

We were a group in the neighborhood that was inseparable and unforgettable. We made secret clubs, had secret meetings, and spoke to each other like a family. We didn’t know that we were making memories. We were just having fun. And that’s all that mattered.

My Mother’s Hands

I showed her my hands because I wanted her to see the way my cat leaves scars on them. I showed them because I wanted her to see how tough I have been. One day, she took my hands and inspected them, mine in hers like a baby being caressed. She told me that they were soft, and that her own is rough, now that she’s grown older.

 I gazed at hers and thought about the way they have guided me, the ones that held mine when I was learning how to walk, the ones that have been coarsened over time with how much she’s washed the dishes that had food she cooked for me. Food that nourished me and helped me grow. Food that she cooked with the groceries she bought from the store early in the morning because she didn’t have time later in the day. Her hands were the ones that brushed my tangled hair every day when I was younger, and they were the same ones that held me when I was crying. My hands are rough now, my mother said. But to me, they have never been softer.

Sleeping On a Snowy Field of Cats

Every night, I sleep on a snowy field of cats. The snow is soft and gets warm when I lay down, sinking with the weight of my restless body. The cats wonder who I am, blinking their curious eyes and smelling with their curious noses. And the snow smells of floral fabric softener and velvety roses. It lulls you into midnight dreams with hazy whispers in your ears telling you to go to sleep now or else the snow will melt and you’ll be left trying to sleep in a puddle of cold water. The cats are shades of rose quartz, blue orchids, and jade. They protect the snow from the sun that turns it into a pool of perturbation. The stars align and connect to make the dreams. The dreams that are supposed to fill you with fortunes as shiny as pearls and thoughts as rapid but consistent as Hawaiian waves.

Every night, I sleep on a snowy field of cats. The cats aren’t so curious and aimlessly wander, away from my restless body. The snow smells of dirt and trouble, shouting at you to wake up, wake up, wake up. And when you open your eyes, you’ll see that you’ve been left with a puddle of murky water. Water underneath your fingernails and staining your soft skin.

The Moon Who Hides Behind the Clouds

The moon appeared at my window during the times it turned full. When the lamp was off and the light switches were flipped, there would be a sliver of light coming from the window shades. It would hide behind the clouds until it was ready to show itself and look upon everyone who needed it.

The moon was my best friend. It appeared during my lowest, when my tears were dripping like vines, when I would turn off all the lights because the darkness was my comfort. It was the sliver of light coming from my window shades, that wanted to see me through the shadows of my room while I hugged myself tight in a corner.

It was then that I realized that the moon was breathtaking. No matter how many rocks or comets hit it, it would glow with pearlescent light. And no matter how much it changed, it would always end up bright. But the moon knows, it knows so much that sometimes it needs to hide behind the clouds. The moon will show up in the darkness, until it knows you’re ready to be on your own.