Back Home
BY ALLISON ALBINO
My tiny father is three years old,
sandwiched and shadowed
between sisters Tita and Leah,
who were evil, despite the white
bows attached to their hair,
matching dresses, perfect
pendants. They would tug-of-war
over inheritance, swindle for lands.
Leah, who is buried in a temple,
would grow up to throw acid
in the face of her husband’s mistress
who, as a result, could no longer produce
tears. My father would mail home
artificial ones from the States.
My father was the runt,
naughty, with more forehead
and ears than anything else,
his budding comb over taking shape.
His brow is crinkled, grumpy, lips
pouty, like he doesn’t want to be in
this photo, or even in the Philippines
anymore. His sisters never thought
he would amount to anything more than
momma’s boy, gambler, drinker,
smoker. Certainly not doctor. Certainly
not one in America. Certainly not
with a wife who was doctor too.
My bedtime stories were me begging,
Tell me about your childhood,
back home? His home, a land faraway
from mine, like some forest enchanted
where witches brew, princesses triumph.
He told me of his favorite cowboy boots
he wore everywhere, even to bed, until
someone stole them. He told me of his obese
aunties who would eat four breakfasts,
take a taxi to walk on the beach and then
taxi back for lunches. The time he stole
a baby goat from the plaza, ran home with him
in his tiny arms, and then brushed his teeth
with soap and water. The time he and his
friends all went for halo-halo, and decided
to book it, one by one, without paying
for the check. My grandmother whipped him
for that one. I wanted a baby goat too
just like the one he had in the Philippines
and I imagined walking my goat around
the mundane block of my Jersey suburb,
a bell around his neck. He, too, would tell
stories. My father drove me to livestock
fairs to see if we could buy one.
Sure, it must be possible, though the health
department didn’t seem to think so.
When Marcos’ martial law was finally lifted
and people were allowed to leave, my father left
it all: parents, sisters, house, friends, language,
mahjong, even the goats.
He would only go back once, twenty-five years later,
when Leah died. I do not know his home,
even though he is mine. I only know it in pieces,
in few words. His home is a language
I do not speak, a song whose melody
a phantom I strain to follow, a past life.
And I am lost. But then I remember how he
told me of the day he first saw snow —
white flakes cold on his brown skin —
slow, gentle, stars out of air.
