On
that same day, the management of JY Square Mall cut down the tree where I used
to sit down to smoke and talk with the habal-habal drivers and the
female cigarette vendor about what they understood about politics and the news
on the papers that they sold. But during that fifteen minute break, I smoked
one stick counting the rings on the poor stump: 27 rings. It was as old as
Amber was.
The
brown on the bark was a dying color, unlike the other trees lining the
Salinas-Gorordo street side that, albeit lethargic-looking, were still
breathing. Perhaps watching the people go about their businesses. Perhaps
exasperated by the indifference of cars with darkly tinted windows, enduring
the poison from their carbon monoxide fart. Perhaps wishing they were some place
else up in Busay feeding on the nutrition that murdered bodies provide. Perhaps
still trying to accept the lot that fate has handed to them – to settle for
that piece of earth underneath the concrete in Salinas Drive. Perhaps like the
mindless and crazy taong grasa who visits the Salinas side walk, swaying
happily in smog.
But
as I sat on the stump breathing heavy from the smoke of my smoldering
cigarette, brown and dead, the trees, though still very much alive, could not
offer comfort. The sun hurt spots where there used to be none; the daily banter
had been scattered to different places – near the talipapa, or the
sari-sari store across the street. Simply put, it wasn't the same as yesterday.
After
playing spot-the-difference between mental pictures from previous days and the
more tangible scene in front, I left, knowing I will no longer return. Perhaps
I may find some other nearby spot with a different lot of people, a different
cigarette vendor, a different kind of chatter.
The
tree was dead. And so was Amber. On that same day, we, the living, breathing
ones were forced to find comfort elsewhere, and left the places and the hours
where we found Amber, knowing we would not return.
