Until the Tree Blooms.
Home Again Chap. 2
The rooster crowed late that morning, as if the war had made even it lazy. A golden warmth flooded the fields, and the hills beyond the barrio still wore the silence of a place catching its breath. In the small nipa hut behind the mango tree, Anan squatted awkwardly in front of the stone stove, struggling to light a fire.
His fingers trembled slightly. Maybe from the cold morning air, or maybe from the habit of always being alert. It was hard to tell the difference anymore.
Behind him, Lina stood on a wooden stool. She watches her Papa with a little disappointment.
"You're doing it wrong," she declared.
"I survived ambushes and landmines. I think I can handle lighting a stove," Anan replied.
The lighter flared and died again.
Lina raised an eyebrow.
"Let's trade. I cook. You sweep."
"You'll burn the house down."
"You'll burn the rice."
They stared at each other. Then laughed like a donkey.
By the time breakfast was ready, if a scorched layer of rice and boiled camote could be called that; the sun had risen high enough to catch on the nipa roof. Birds chirped in the trees, and somewhere down the path, the neighbor's goat had once again escaped and was chewing laundry off someone's clothesline.
Lina nibbled at her rice. Anan tried to act like the crispy black parts were intentional.
"This is my specialty," he said, chewing. "We used to call this tutong."
"It tastes like helmet," Lina said, sticking out her tongue.
"That's how you know it's authentic."
They finished eating, mostly laughing between bites, and started cleaning the house. It had stood for years, and the dust clung to everything like bad memories. Anan wiped the picture frame of Mina with a rag and gently set it back on the altar.
"She still looks the same," he murmured.
"She doesn't like dust on her nose," Lina said, helping him polish the glass. "She sneeze a lot."
Anan smiled softly.
They swept the yard, threw out rotted banana stems from the side, and cleared leaves from the path. Anan attempted to fix the loose bamboo floor panel but ended up hammering his thumb instead.
"Language, Papa!" Lina called from the kitchen.
"I said 'susmaryosep,'" Anan replied, biting down on his lip.
"You said it five times," Lina teased.
They stopped for a break under the mango tree, sitting on an old wooden bench. It had cracks on the legs and wobbled slightly whenever one of them moved, but it was theirs.
"This tree's the same," Anan said, patting the trunk. "Still hasn't bloomed."
"Like it's waiting for something."
"Like what?" Lina asked.
He shrugged. "Maybe for me to clean up my act."
Lina laughed and leaned against his arm. "Then we'll be waiting forever."
Their chat was interrupted by the return of an old foe: the neighbor's rooster. It strutted into the yard like it owned the land, paused in front of Anan's boots, and with one swift motion, snatched one and sprinted away.
"Not again!" Anan yelled, stumbling after it with one slipper.
The chase that followed became legend within hours. The rooster dashed between bamboo poles, under laundry lines, and through the middle of a neighbor's lugaw stall. Anan ran barefoot, shouting threats and promises at the fleeing bird.
Lina watched from the tree, howling with laughter as her father tripped over a sagging basket and somersaulted into a pile of coconuts.
By the time he returned, dirt-covered and holding a half-chewed slipper, Lina had tears in her eyes from laughing so hard.
"Don't say anything," he warned.
"Too late," she replied. "Everyone heard you threaten to make chicken adobo out of it."
Anan grunted. "That rooster's lucky I'm a changed man."
Later that day, they fetched water from the poso. Anan struggles to carry two heavy buckets, refusing to let Lina help even when she pouted. "I didn't come back from war to watch my daughter lift things heavier than her head," he said.
Back home, Lina practiced writing her name on banana leaves using a charcoal stick while Anan bathed behind the water barrel. There was a yelp.
"What now?" Lina asked, peeking around.
Anan emerged with soap bubbles in his hair, eyes squinting. "Why does the shampoo smells different?"
Lina burst out laughing. "Because it is laundry soap, Papa!"
He looked at the bar in his hand. "You're trying to kill me."
"That's my revenge for that tutong, Papa." she added.
"You're really in trouble, young lady." Quickly washing off the soap in his hair.
At dusk, Tiyang Amapola returned from the town center, carrying a basket of camote tops and fish wrapped in newspaper. She paused at the gate, taking in the sight of the two of them under the tree, Anan combing Lina's hair gently while she told him a story about a dream she had.
Night fell slowly.
Anan lit the gas lamp, placed it on the center table, and sat with Lina on the floor. She brought out her sketchbook and showed him a new drawing.
It was them standing under the mango tree. Lina, her mother Mina, and her father Anan. Her figure was bright yellow. While Anan and Mina was brown with lines on their arms. "You made me skinny," Anan said.
"You are skinny."
They laughed.
"I'll hang this on the wall," he said, pretending to admire it.
"No. Hang it beside Mama's picture."
Anan fell quiet for a moment, then nodded.
"Papa," she asked, her voice suddenly small, "do you think Mama sees us?"
He looked at the photo of Mina on the altar, her smile captured forever in a black-and-white frame.
"I think she never stopped," he answered. "Not for a second."
They said little else that night. They lay side by side on the banig again, the lamp flickering gently nearby.
Lina fell asleep first, her tiny hand curled in his. Anan stayed awake a while longer, listening to the sounds of the crickets, the wind through the trees. He is thankful to have reunited with his daughter and to have survived the long depressing war.