That's for another story

 

This island is covered with coconut jungle. Hectare upon hectare of coconut trees, filled with copra, the gold of the region, and every single coconut tree, even in the highest mountains, is owned by someone.

My wife’s father, San Vicente, was a coconut farmer. He owned a track of land in the mountains. When my wife was young she and her siblings would go with San Vincente deep into the misty jungle to harvest coconuts. At night they would sleep in makeshift shelters, miles from nowhere, in pitch black, snake filled, darkness.

To this day my wife refuses to go camping.

San Vicente was found dead in the forest one day. No one knew how he died and no one asked. He just died. There are no autopsies in the mountains. The jungle quietly holds its secrets.

They buried him in the family plot and that was that.

San Vicente left nine children and he had no will. These are mountain people and settling the inheritance ultimately came down to gun vs machete. But that’s for another story, altogether.

Calbayog City, 2025

Touching the earth

 

pencil drawing, calbayog city, 2025

There are people who deprive themselves of everything.  And they never realize it.

We visit my wife's family in a little village deep in the mountains.  At night the mountain sky is clear, and i gaze up into the stars.  I imagine the universe in all its immensity.  Endless galaxies floating in space, like gems suspended in crystal.

The universe has no system of checks and balances.

There is no recourse for life wasted.

I wake up to the sound of roosters.  Dawn's gentle light whispers in through bamboo slats.  Everyone else is asleep on the mat, piled together, Filipino style.

I heat water and make my morning coffee.

The day's sweetest moment.

Caybago, 2025