Lamao Limay (Draft) Smiles are bright in the brown faces I have known, eyes crinkled against the sun; Home is a shack with thatch for a roof and a barrel that caches the rain as it runs; An old woman sifts rice in the shade of acacia as her husband and sons fish from a boat not far from an island littered by war where the great guns and towers stand silenced by rust. Her face worn and weathered from a long life of labor she’s known since she took her first step. Her hair is just graying and her teeth aren’t white, she brushes away a wisp of hair as I draw nigh; The palm trees are tall and sway in the breeze and the dust that blows in from the bay; The long hot walk down from the tricycle taxi and the bus on the highway that serves as a link to a world that seems worlds away from the life that she lives with husband and sons and daughter. Her careworn manner belied by a pride in appearing to me without wrinkle or gray. She offers me greetings from her seat in the shade, I see youth in her eyes, a beauty that never abated; A feeling that once she wore fine-patterned lace and danced to the moon with abandon and grace; Eyes closed to the feel of deepening joy she whirls and spins to the music inside as the people make way and she moves to the song on her lips and vibration and thrill of the sound that surrounds her. She smiles at me then and walks toward the house and bades me come in through the gate. Mindful of custom I step from my shoes, dusty and worn from the walk, and place them beside the door; Her home isn’t large, the ground laid with palm to cover the sand hard-packed for a floor; The furnishings sparse and arranged with a care that acknowledges want of ease and tenders a message that poor is not gloom and people with little are not people in need but are happy and used to their way. Over my head a platform for sleep, a sink and a tap and a bare pipe for water that drips through the day. The old woman’s daughter walks in with a tray and offers me dinner of fish from the bay; The townfolk walk out after dinner at home to stroll ‘round the town as the sun slips below Mount Mariveles; The girls are pretty in long flowing dresses with bright pretty flowers and smiles on their faces while walking about hands clasped and laughing, their coy glances searching for beaus in the night. The people walk slowly in heat still oppressive but a strengthening breeze is boding a change.
Posted on: Sun, 07 Jul 2013 23:20:51 +0000
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