lagyo

*

it was the summer of 1999, you could smell the sprouting of tropical seeds, the laziness of carabaos praying for a little rain, teenagers lining up for affordable traditional circumcision. two kites were up, sliding with the mid-afternoon breeze. At 30°,the sun shone on the plastic-made kite.

flightless birds by: Onigs

Rey spent an entire hour creating it. He owned a skateboard and raised a parrot as his own baby. Though he was raised by affluence, he spent his most cherished childhood memories in a poor community near the mercado publico. there, the houses hid the luscious meadows, a humble mountain range and a pool of mud and water. On the other hand, Narj spent just some minutes to finish her paper kite. It was made of paste, newspaper and barbecue sticks. Her parents owned a soldering hut which stood beside a one-seater barber shop. the shop was most popular. the place operated daily— filled with flat tires, bloated machismo and soiled hands. The rays of the sun left this maddeningly innocent glow on Narj’s eyes that day. It was summer of 1991. He was her first dream boy. Flying kites with him did not mean: the earliest reminder of soaring, the possibility of wingless flights, her ache for the idea of falling without bruises and the concept of letting go (because she keeps on failing in this area. tremendously.) Narj is now a mother of two. I see her doing some 2nd-hand shopping every Thursday (because I am a hardcore ukayista as well). I don’t know if she believes in stories the real owners relay to you. Rey is living his life somewhere now. I don’t know how to describe him. 

She had this long hair, long eyelashes and fat laughter. He sent me a Valentine card when I was in Grade four. In a corner of my soul, I have left a room where we never grow up. never will.

At the back of our house, the fields of green are gone. A hospital was built. and oftentimes, I am the first one to hear the crack of mourning when the ambulance stops crying and someone is dying. (and eventually,dies.)

 =

Summer of 2010, she sat on a park bench. the university gave her this serene nostalgia: everything sepia and wonderful. like licking old envelopes once more, tasting the years that have gone by even without having to read through the letters. surrounded by trees, she could almost get lost in the firmness of their trunks.she named them after the following: Napoleon Bonaparte, Mahatma Gandhi, Bono, Henry David Thoreau, Francis Bacon and Santos. perhaps everyone knows about those male legends. she knows Santos the most. By heart. Santos is her lolo. it was about summer of 1990 when he made her her first kite. contrary to what most kids do, she got used to tying its short thread to a long stick. She held the stick tightly and waved it with bursting glee and pride. later, she realized that kites are more beautiful when they are up and away.

now—Away can give her this feeling of uncertainty but believing is most realized when challenged by distance and gravity.

“Buenavista!!!”, the student assistant called for her amidst the humid day and a line full of enrollees. She left a suggestion note: “I hope your mood does not mean something deeply sad. Smile.” Leaving the oldest university that day gave her this hope in bloom. She walked past the old fences. the yellowbells were not dangling with beauty but there was something budding inside of her—she could even feel how her hair scatters if ever she throws her self for a freefall. 

pulling her neckline a bit, she felt the gentle pain near her heart, she grinned at the sight of a tattoed kite and the words: payaso (in alibata). träume. and palagyo.

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