Just once, I got him to ride a boat with me. The sky was overcast–that must have been November–and the air smelled of rain and boiled peanuts in the empty park. I was sitting across from him as he rowed, and te gathering mist blurred the park behind him until all there was, it seemed to me, was his face and the stark red of his parka. I imagined we were alone at sea. The owl and the pussycat. In a beautiful pea-green boat. They took some mhoney and pl-enty of money. But there was something about the way he rowed, the way his eyes clung to the water below that made me ask, “Are we sad, Papa?” He jerked his head as if I woke him up from sleep, and our boat rocked a little. Just then, a big cloud full of cold rain went down on Burnhamn, on the lake, on us. “Oh no, race to the shorehaha!” “Hahahahurry, Papahaha!” The rain wet the tip of my nape above my jacket collar and crawled down my back like a worm.
By Socorro Villanueva
Gusto kong pumuntang Baguio! Ahehehe.
