Blame Age

picture from wikipedia
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Joni_Mitchell-Both_Sides_Now.jpg

I will never look at love

the way you played Joni Mitchell 

as teenage girls and boys.

I might admit I will never really know life

at all the same way
you hold those receipts

of liquidated expenses, where you Dad,

jotted a simple report of your feelings

as 50 year olds through the familiar Bisaya endearment

“Langga”

–perhaps not as intimate as Illonggos would mean

but love, all the same.

As a teenager, I documented the process of which

you started to partition that bed I used to jump on like a trampoline

(after learning not to pee on it),

where such distant space made with me in between;
where you sometimes sneaked

your fingers to remember how it was without me,
but surrendered to the divide as years went by.

Still, I thought the debris of damaged fluorescent lamps

felt nothing like lost hope.

There was still the sun that rose over the roof

injecting its rays in between the grills of our windows.

For seven years after I secretly wished

I’d remember how it felt to just imagine sadness

like kids when asked to cry in junior theatre

or actresses when asked to portray poverty

even if they own mansions and worship purchases of

those jewelries, you Mom, wished you never had to pawn.

You have grown so apart

I’ve left calling you in 3rd person behind,

overlooked sending gifts in jelled categories

because complains became Bible versus

and compliments turned into defense whenever

I’d mimic criticizing one of you

So I learned to adore disapproving.

In fact, my professors commended my constant analytics

which I used as staple conversation starters

commenting on people’s physical situations

hiding that state at home through hilarity.

But when I saw your arms around Mom

that unique afternoon, I thought I was dreaming

but I finally resolved home after years

of accepting that lack of bliss in marriage,

dismissing success stories in all cynicism

majority of people have,

I tried to fix the fractured bones of the house.

You didn’t even notice how it had tilted a little

forcing earth to push grasses up the cracks.

Maybe you  even watered these misplaced greens overtime,

alternate them for basil leaves,

or mold the collection to make handmade papers

that you serve as receipts for the years of missed affection.

So I asked you,

“Were you a fan of Joni in the 70’s?”

You both answered you don’t know her

You’ve forgotten and you blame age.