Rice Bird on the Lanzon Tree
By late September, the afternoon had become gentle with the soft rains and the thin clouds; the winds from the hills beyond Sampaloc Lake, which in August were strong and typhoon-angry, had now become kind and smooth and languid. Near the gate, in front of the house, the flowers on the lanzon tree had become ripened fruits. The end of the rainy season was in sight.
After I had weeded the tomato plants near the well, I sat at the top of the bamboo stairs and played with my yo-yo as I ate a cluster of yellow lanzones. It was twilight now, and the sun was slowly going down, pale and weak-looking, beyond the coconut tree-covered hills. As I played carelessly, I saw Mother coming towards me from the darkening living room of our house. Her steps were slow and her face was drawn as if she had something serious to say. I stopped playing for while and stuffed the yo-yo in my pocket where I also have my rubber bands and said, "the tomato plants are already weeded, Mother."
She seemed not to have heard me. She went to my side near the bamboo stairs and sat down on the old bench and sighed. It seemed like a sigh of relief, and yet it was a sad sigh. In the twilight darkness of our house, it seemed even sadder.
"We're almost ready for your departure, Crispin," she said, putting one of her feet up on the bench, and pulling down her skirt covering her raised leg. "Your clothes are all finished except for one pair of pants. And the bamboo bank we're filling up for your pocket money is almost full."
Her voice was tender with a tinge of melancholy, the huskiness, though, was still there. Her breathing was heavy enough to be heard, like one tired from a full day's work. She sighed again.
I looked at her face for a moment, then I smiled, sad as her voice. I said, "You look tired, Mother."
"Not tired, Crispin," she said. "Come here. Sit on the bench beside me."
I went to her side and she took away her feet from the bench so I would have enough space to sit on. AsI sat down, she placed her arms around my shoulders and I felt the warmth of her body and the quiver in her arms was strong.
You should always be a good boy, Crispin," she said softly, gently like a prayer. Always remember doing good is easier than doing bad. And always safer."
I did not say a word now. I was breathing hard, too. The twilight, her voice, her arms around me, and the moment of parting confronting me like the dark silent night touched my heart. There were many times in the past when she shouted at me, reprimanding me for this and that offense and I had not even paid attention to her. But now, here in the mellowing afternoon, with the dark already settling in the living room of our house and under the tall coconut trees in our yard, I heard every word Mother said. I heard it clearly and lovingly. And every word assumed a new and better meaning for me.
Your thoughts should always be that we're thinking of you all the time you'll not forget usã…¡ and our Lord," she paused for a moment to sigh, then she went on again, "you'll always be in good graces.
A lone tiny ricebird perched on a branch of one of the lanzon trees near twittered a little song the gate. Somehow, the song seemed melancholy, too. Had this been another day in the past, I would have taken out a rubber band from my pocket and put a stone in it and proven again to myself that I was a good shot. I would not know what to do with a dead ricebird, but I would have felt triumphant in my heart for being such a sure and crack shooter. Actually, I would not have even thought of the life that the tiny bird had lost.
But not this afternoon. As I heard the lonely twitter, somehow I pitied the other birds I had shot and killed in the past. A kind of gloom nestled in my heart and I also pitied myself, I wanted to embrace Mother, embrace her frantically, and cry out my self-pity against her chest. But I heaved a sigh instead, as first trying to draw out from my entire body with one sigh all the sorrows of my conscience. And I felt like an old man all at once.
"I'll remember your words, Mother," I said.. I'll always remember you. When you're there across the seas," Mother said again, her voice livelier now, "don't forget to write. When you're in doubt about anything, remember that we are here waiting for your words, your question."
"Yes, Mother," I said, feeling better.
"The trees were like dark images before our house. The yellow lanzon fruits could not be seen anymore. The sun was way behind the coconut tree-covered hills beyond Sampaloc Lake, beyond the world of my village where evening had now come.
"It's dark now, Son," Mother said, standing up. "We better start lighting the lamps now.
"Yes, Mother," I said, standing up, too. I walked towards the kitchen and lighted a lamp from the fire that was underneath the rice pot, on the stove.
"Your father will soon be arriving, she said again, looking into the rice pot to see whether the rice was already cooked. "We better start preparing dinner. Call for your sister Maria at Susana's house. She's there sewing buttons on one of your shirts."
I walked down the house to Susana's. As I walked across the garden to the gate, I heard the ricebird twitter again. I searched for the rubber band in my pocket and when I found it, I aimed to shoot at the twittering ricebird. Yes, I aimed but I knew it was dark already and l could not see the bird anymore. I also knew that when aimed, my rubber band was empty. It had no stone.
I threw the rubber band away and ran to Susana's house. I felt so happy suddenly. In the dark, I wanted to sing. Sing like the happy little choirboys in church. Sing like the belated ricebird.
I remembered the face of my mother as she talked with me that afternoon. I remembered her words. I could still hear her voice. And I knew I would never really be separated from her though I were thousands of miles away in the strange land.
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