9/1/2017 just stories for children

The Mats
By FRANCISCO ARCELLANA

For my family, Papas homecoming from his many inspection trips around the Philippines was always
an occasion to remember. But there was one homecoming - from a trip to the south that turned out
to be more memorable than any of the others.
Papa was an engineer. He inspected new telegraph lines for the government. He had written from
Lopez, Tayabas:
I have just met a marvelous matweaver a real artist and I shall have a surprise for you. I asked
him to weave a sleeping mat for every one of the family. I can hardly wait to show them to you

After a few days Papa wrote again:

I am taking the Bicol Express tomorrow. I have the mats with me, and they are beautiful. I hope to be home to join you for
dinner.
Mama read Papas letter aloud during the noon meal. Talk about the mats flared up like wildfire.
I like the feel of mats, said my brother Antonio. I like the smell of new mats.
Oh, but these mats are different, said Susanna, my younger sister. They have our names woven into them. There is a
different color for each of us.

A mat was not something new to us. There was already one such mat in the house. It was one we seldom use, a mat older
than any of us.
This mat had been given to Mama by her mother when Mama and Papa were married. It had been with them ever since. It
was used on their wedding night and afterwards only on special occasions. It was a very beautiful mat. It had green leaf
borders and gigantic red roses woven onto it. In the middle it said:
Emilia y Jaime
Recuerdo
The mat did not ever seem to grow old. To Mama it was always as new as it had been on her wedding night. The folds and
creases always looked new and fresh. The smell was always the smell of a new mat. Watching it was an endless joy.

Mama always kept that mat in her trunk. When any of us got sick, the mat was brought out
and the sick child made to sleep on it. Every one of us had at some time in our life slept on
it. There had been sickness in our family. And there had been deaths.

That evening Papa arrived. He had brought home a lot of fruit from the fruit-growing
provinces he had passed in his travels. We sampled pineapple, lanzones, chico, atis,
santol, watermelon, guayabano, and avocado. He had also brought home a jar of preserved
sweets.

Dinner seemed to last forever. Although we tried not to show it, we could hardly wait to see
the mats.
Finally, after a long time over his cigar, Papa rose from his chair and crossed the room. He went to the corner where his
luggage was piled. From the heap he pulled out a large bundle. Taking it under his arm, he walked to the middle of the room
where the light was brightest. He dropped the bundle to the floor. Bending over and balancing himself on his toes, he pulled at
the cord that bound it. It was strong. It would not break. It would not give way. Finally, Alfonso, my youngest brother, appeared
at Papas side with a pair of scissors.
Papa took the scissors. One swift movement, snip!, and the bundle was loose!
Papa turned to Mama and smiled. These are the mats, Miling, he said.
He picked up the topmost mat in the bundle.
This is yours, Miling. Mama stepped forward to the light, wiping her still moist hands against the folds of her apron. Shyly,
she unfolded the mat without a word.
We all gathered around the spread mat.
It was a beautiful mat. There was a name in the very center of it: Emilia. Interwoven into the large, green letters where flowers
cadena de amor.
Its beautiful, Jaime. Mama whispered, and she could not say any more.
And this, I know, is my own, said Papa of the next mat in the bundle. His mat was simple and the only colors on it were
purple and cold.
And this, for you, Marcelina.
I had always thought my name was too long. Now I was glad to see that my whole name was spelled out on the mat, even if
the letters were small. Beneath my name was a lyre, done in three colors. Papa knew I loved music and played the piano. I
was delighted with my new mat.
And this is for you, Jose. Jose is my oldest brother. He wanted to become a doctor.
This is yours, Antonio.
And this, yours, Juan.
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9/1/2017 just stories for children

And this is yours, Jesus.

One by one my brothers and sisters stepped forward to receive their mats. Mat after mat was unfolded. On each mat was a
symbol that meant something special to each of us.
At last everyone was shown their mats. The air was filled with excited talk.

You are not to use the mats until you go the university, Papa said.
But, Jaime, Mama said, wonderingly, there are some more mats left in the bundle.
Yes there are three more mats to unfold. They are for the others who are not here Papas voice grew soft and his eyes
looked far away.
I said I would bring home a sleeping mat for every one of the family. And so I did, Papa said. Then his eyes fell on each of
us. Do you think Id forgotten them? Do you think I had forgotten them? Do you think I could forget them?
This is for you, Josefina!
And this, for you, Victoria!
And this, for you, Concepcion!
Papas face was filled with a long-bewildered sorrow.
Then I understood. The mats were for my three sisters, who died when they were still very young.

After a long while, Papa broke the silence. We must not ever forget them, he said softly. They may be dead but they are
never really gone. They are here, among us, always in our hearts.

The remaining mats were unfolded in silence. The colors were not bright but dull. I remember that the names of the dead
among us did not glow o shine as did the other living names.

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9/1/2017 Philippine Literature: The Sadness Collector (Merlinda Bobis)

The Sadness Collector (Merlinda Bobis)

And she will not stop eating, another pot, another plate, another mouthful of sadness, and she will grow bigger and bigger,
and she will burst.

On the bed, six year old Rica braces herself, waiting for the dreaded explosion

Nothing. No big bang. Because shes been a good girl. Her tears are not even a mouthful tonight. And maybe their neighbours
in the run down apartment have been careful, too. From every pot and plate, they must have scraped off their leftover sighs
and hidden them somewhere unreachable. So Big Lady cant get to them. So she can be saved from bursting.

Every night, no big bang really, but Rica listens anyway.

The house is quiet again. She breathes easier, lifting the sheets slowly from her face a brow just unfurrowing, but eyes still
wary and a mouth forming the old silent question are you really there? She turns on the lamp. Its girlie kitsch like the rest of
the decor, from the dancing lady wallpaper to the row of Barbie dolls on a roseate plastic table. The tiny room is all pink
bravado, hoping to compensate for the warped ceiling and stained floor. Even the unhinged window flaunts a family of pink
paper rabbits.

Are you there?

Her father says she never shows herself to anyone. Big Lady only comes when youre asleep to eat your sadness. She goes
from house to house and eats the sadness of everyone, so she gets too fat. But theres a lot of sadness in many houses, it
just keeps on growing each day, so she cant stop eating, and she cant stop growing too.

Are you really that bid? How do you wear your hair?

Dios ko, if she eats all our mess, Rica, she might grow too fat and burst, so be a good girl and save her by not being sad
hoy, stop whimpering, I said, and go to bed. Her father is not always patient with his storytelling.

All quiet now. Shes gone.

Since Rica was three, when her father told her about Big Lady just after her mother left for Paris, she was always listening
intently to all the night noises from the kitchen. No, that sound is not the scurrying of mice shes actually checking the
plates now, lifting the lid off the rice pot, peeking into cups for sadness, both overt and unspoken. To Rica, it always tastes
salty, like tears, even her fathers funny look each time she asks him to read her again the letters from Paris.

She has three boxes of them, one for each year, though the third box is not even half full. All of them tied with Paris ribbons.
The first year, her mother sent all colours of the rainbow for her long, unruly hair, maybe because her father did not know how
to make it more graceful. He must have written her long letters, asking about how to pull the mass of curls away from the face
and tie them neatly the way he gathered, into some semblance of order, his own nightly longings.

It took some time for him to perfect the art of making a pony tail. Then he discovered a trick unknown to even the best
hairdressers. Instead of twisting the bunch of hair to make sure it does not come undone before its tied, one can rotate the
whole body. Rica simply had to turn around in place, while her father held the gathered hair above her head. Just like dancing,
really.

She never forgets, talaga naman, the aunties whisper among themselves these days. A remarkable child. She was only a
little thing then, but she noticed all, didnt she, never missed anything, committed even details to memory. A very smart kid,
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9/1/2017 Philippine Literature: The Sadness Collector (Merlinda Bobis)

but too serious, a sad kid.

They must have guessed that, recently, she has cheated on her promise to behave and save Big Lady. But only on nights
when her father comes home late and drunk, and refuses to read the old letters from Paris indeed, she has been a very
good girl. Shes six and grown up now, so, even if his refusal has multiplied beyond her ten fingers, she always makes sure
that her nightly tears remained small and few. Like tonight, when she hoped her father would come home early, as he
promised again. Earlier, Rica watched TV to forget, to make sure the tears wont amount to a mouthful. She hates waiting. Big
Lady hates that, too, because then shell have to clean up till the early hours of the morning.

Why Paris? Why three years and even more? Aba, this is getting too much now. The aunties never agree with her mothers
decision to work there, on a fake visa, as a domestic helper ay naku, taking care of other peoples children, while, across
the ocean, her own baby cries herself to sleep? Talaga naman! She wants to earn good money and build us a house.
Remember, I only work in a factory... Her father had always defended his wife, until recently, when all talk about her return
was shelved. It seems she must extend her stay, because her employer might help her to become legal. Then she can come
home for a visit and go back there to work some more

The lid clatters off the pot. Beneath her room, the kitchen is stirring again. Rica sits up on the bed the big one has returned?
But she made sure the pot and plates were clean, even the cups, before she went to bed. She turns off the lamp to listen in
the dark. Expectant ears, hungry for the phones overseas beep. Her mother used to call each month and write her postcards,
also long love letters, even if she couldnt read yet. With happy snaps, of course. Earlier this year, she sent one of herself and
the new baby of her employer.

Cutlery noise. Does she also check them? This has never happened before, her coming back after a lean meal. Perhaps,
shes licking a spoon for any trace of saltiness, searching between the prongs of a fork. Unknown to Rica, Big Lady is wise, an
old hand in this business. She senses that theres more to a mouthful of sadness than meets the tongue. A whisper of salt,
even the smallest nudge to the palate, can betray a century of hidden grief. Perhaps, she understands that, for all its practice,
humanity can never conceal the daily act of futility at the dinner table. As we feed continually, we also acknowledge the
perennial nature of our hunger. Each time we bring food to our mouths, the gut emptiness that we attempt to fill inevitably
contaminates our cutlery, plates, cups, glasses, our whole table. It is this residual contamination, our individual portions of
grief, that she eats, so we do not die from them but what if we dont eat? Then we can claim self sufficiency, a fullness
from birth, perhaps. Then we wont betray our hunger.

But Rica was not philosophical at four years old, when she had to be cajoled, tricked, ordered, then scolded severely before
she finished her meal, if she touched it at all. Rica understood her occasional hunger strikes quite simply. She knew that these
dinner quarrels with her father, and sometimes her aunties, ensured dire consequences. Each following day, she always
made stick drawings of Big Lady with an ever increasing girth, as she was sure the lady had had a big meal the night
before.

Mouth curved downward, shes sad like her meals. No, she wears a smile, shes happy because shes always full. Sharp
eyes, they can see in the dark, light bulb eyes, and big teeth for chewing forever. She can hardly walk, because her bellys
so heavy, shes pregnant with leftovers. No, she doesnt walk, she flies like a giant cloud and shes not heavy at all, she only
looks heavy. And she doesnt want us to be sad, so she eats all our tears and sighs. But she cant starve, can she? Of course,
she likes sadness, its food.

Fascination, fear and a kinship drawn from trying to save each other. Big Lady saves Rica from sadness; Rica saves Big Lady
from bursting by not being sad. An ambivalent relationship, confusing, but certainly a source of comfort. And always Big Lady
as object of attention. Those days when Rica drew stick drawings of her, she made sure the big one was always adorned
with pretty baubles and make up. She even drew her with a Paris ribbon to tighten her belly. Then she added a chic hat to
complete the picture.
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Crimson velvet with a black satin bow. Quite a change from all the girlie kitsch that her mother had dredged from Paris
unfashionable side of town? The day it arrived in the mail, Rica was about to turn six. A perfect Parisienne winter hat for a tiny
head in the tropics. It came with a bank draft for her party.

She did not try it on, it looked strange, so different from the Barbies and pink paper rabbits. This latest gift was unlike her
mother, something was missing. Rica turned it inside out, searching on TV, Magic Man can easily pull a rabbit or a dove out
of his hat, just like that, always. But this tale was not part of her fathers repertoire. He told her not to be silly when she asked
him to be Magic Man and pull out Paris but can she eat as far as Paris? Can she fly from here to there overnight? Are their
rice pots also full of sad leftovers? How salty?

Nowadays, her father makes sure he comes home late each night, so he wont have to answer the questions, especially
about the baby in the photograph. So he need not to improvise further on his three year old tall tale.

There it is again, the cutlery clunking against a plate or scraping the bottom of a cup? Shes searching for the hidden
mouthfuls and platefuls and potfuls. Cupboards are opened. No, nothing there, big one, nothing Ricas eyes are glued shut.
The sheets rise and fall with her breathing. She wants to leave the bed, sneak into the kitchen and check out this most
unusual return and thoroughness.

Thats the rice pot being overturned

Her breaths make and unmake a hillock on the streets

A plate shatters on the floor

Back to a foetal curl, knees almost brushing chin

Another plate crushes

She screams

The pot is hurled against the wall

She keeps screaming as she ruins out of the room, down to the kitchen

And the cutlery, glasses, cups, more plates

Big Ladys angry, Big Ladys hungry, Big Ladys turning the house upside down

Breaking it everywhere

Her throat is weaving sound, as if it were all that it never knew

SHUT UP !

Big Lady wants to break all to get to the heart of the matter, where its the saltiest. In the vein of a plate, within the aluminium
bottom of a pot, in the copper fold of a spoon, deep in the curve of a cups handle

Ropes and ropes of scream

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I SAID, SHUT UP!

Her cheek stings. She collapses on the floor before his feet.

I didnt mean to, Dios ko po, I never meant to

Her dazed eyes make out the broken plates, the dented pot, the shards of cups, glasses, the cutlery everywhere

Hes hiccupping drunkenly all over her

I didnt mean to, Rica, I love you, baby, Ill never let you go His voice is hoarse with anger and remorse.

She came back, Papa

She cant take you away from me

Shes here again

Just because shes legal now

She might burst, Papa

That whore - ! His hands curl into fists on her back.

Big Lady knows, has always known. This feast will last her a lifetime, if she does not burst tonight.

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9/1/2017 everyone is relevant to someone. - Breaking Through by Myrna Pena-Reyes Haltingly...

Breaking Through
by Myrna Pena-Reyes

Haltingly I undo the knots

around your parcel that came this morning.
A small box should require little labor,
but youve always been thorough,
tying things tight and well.
The twine lengthens,
curls beside the box.
I see your fingers bind and pull,
snapping the knots into place
(once your belt slapped sharply against my skin)
You hoped the package would hold its shape
Across 10,000 miles of ocean.

Its not a brides superstition

that leaves the scissors in the drawer.
Unravelling what youve done with love
I practice more than patience
a kind of thoroughness
I couldnt see before.
I shall not let it pass.
My father, this undoing is
what binds us.

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