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I remember when
they sent me off.
There were no words exchanged as my father drove the
van lent to him by his brother-in-law. We cruised to
around 30 miles per hour, the 401 freeway was clogged
as usual. The air conditioner was not functioning, so
we had to open the windows to let the breeze speak to
us in hushed tones. It was quiet, except for the buzzing
of car engines, of gas-guzzling SUVs, of luxury cars,
passing us by. Each of us – my mother, father,
and younger brother – in a sort of silent contemplation
of the events that led us to that route, towards LAX,
where I told them mutely that everything’s going
to be alright, while holding back caustic tears, cursing
everything that conspired to make that moment happen.
It was the first time I treated them to anything. A
few burgers, fries, from McDonalds while waiting for
the boarding call. I saved three month’s worth
of wages for that plane ticket, secretly plotting an
escape from the permanence that almost gripped me, in
the middle of the night in the most desolate part of
the world. And I only spared around ten dollars for
a last meal together, with my parents who spent a lifetime
troubling themselves with raising an insolent kid. Of
course I trembled. And I didn’t know what to say,
except half-baked, uncommitted pledges that I’m
going home for a reason.
We left my aunt’s house at 2 pm. It was already
dark outside the airport when we arrived. I never revered
the Californian sunset. It seemed dry and contrived,
as if tired of its own routine. Here, when you stare
at the sunset, you’re always on the brink of tears,
a torrent of memories envelopes the skyline, and when
you try to reach it as it illuminates rusted, corrugated
rooftops, your hands start to bleed.
It was the first time I hugged my father, the first
time my brother cried on my account. I was surprised
since he seemed so cheerful the whole time. And my mother,
unexpectedly, didn’t even shed a tear, only telling
me that what’s important is that I’m happy.
And on that cue, I turned my back, took my heavy backpack
and walked towards the boarding area, where the noise
seemed to falter, and you’re left to your own
devastation. I lost the chance to say thanks.
It must have been painful driving back home. I wonder
what they told each other to comfort themselves, as
they drove back to my aunt’s house, her territory,
where she looked at everyone with disdain and frustration
with having to deal with us, her f*cking charity case.
My father, the architect turned carpenter; my mother,
who was always emanating with authority, now faltering
with a debilitating sickness; my brother, the straight
A student who chose Che Guevarra’s “Motorcycle
Diaries” for his book report. I wonder what the
breeze told them then.
We wish it was a different world we’re living
in, where the airport didn’t host an obscure,
compelling religion, where we won’t need to exchange
promises, where leaving won’t crush us to pieces.
Where it’s actually a choice we didn’t have
to take.# Philippine Collegian
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