On Recovery

From now on, I write. About how the commute is really what makes the workdays drag on. About cheap perfumes and the people they make me remember with just a whiff. About EDSA at two AM and the people I meet on the bus. About those I evade. About how my only memory of grade school is the steady line of promissory notes. About the father I wish I had. About songs I tell people I don’t like for they hit too close to home. About term papers and wondering who invented citations. About Mama and holding her hand and her body going limp as life went out of her– to where, who knows. About getting lost in the woods at night and a stranger offering help for the price of five hundred pesos. About falling in love automatically when a man mentions he is or he wants to be a teacher. About his reasons. About our thirty-year-old maid and her growing pile of romance pocketbooks. About faith. About losing it. About whether I should sing about longing or loss — I am slowly learning the difference — live on this radio show. About books I want to finish but don’t really want to read. About how I don’t get smooth jazz and so prefer RHCP on a rainy night. About writing. About wanting. About wanting to write. About filling up a page. About being afraid. About starting all over, for the Nth time, all over again.