There was a time when I know classes will be cancelled. That is, when the rain makes an endless metallic patter on the zinc roof like it does on an anahaw leaf, an open umbrella or a stretched tarpauline, when I wake an hour too early until the time I get out of bed.

It is when a freshly-ironed school uniform feels like a gossamer embrace, useless but warm on a sudden holiday. Mama is mending a tattered shirt. The radio is crooning "How much is that doggy in the window?" followed by Dobol B's station ID followed by Nilo Rosas' flowery announcement.

I'd never take off these clothes and sleep in them again. By the time I get up three hours later my soul tries to linger more in its reclaimed freedom.

I hear a father-in-law's Jupiterian banter, a wife's tap on the keyboard, a son's wake-up cry.

Silence has never been home again.

This entry was posted by sky, on Thursday, September 15, 2005. You can leave your response.