bear-stabs

I have memories of the rain in me. Of rain-washed blood and stabs of iron and light. In the middle of a night-storm, biting a small longnose pliers, my uncle, that shirtless moron of a bear, climbed up the lamp post beside our gate to fix the fuse: the entire looban had fallen into darkness.

He monkeyed himself up past the metal spokes of the gate, looked down at me once, his face a shadow: the only light source being the post he held onto. I wiggled my fluffy slippers-warmed toes: should I call for help, or watch further?

Spears of rain soaked my uncle's teddy bear pajamas, everything in eye-sweep simplified in shades of grey: his grip slipped and I lost time. A thud when he hit the ground or a thud when he hit the metal spokes? He bled on the ground, in the rain, leaning on one elbow, his free hand on the center of his chest as he smiled at me: I waved back.

"Tumama lang 'yung pwet ko!" he yelled in the light-circle; the lamp post shone directly over him. I lost more time. Did he hit the spokes chest first, then pulled himself up?

The bear got on his feet and looked up, at the height from which he fell, and then looked around for his pliers. My aunt came rushing past me, screaming what was that thud and panicked herself into more screams as she rushed out to my grinning uncle.

"Ang tanga-tanga mo!" my aunt shrieked between sobs and wiped her unshirted bear's chest of blood, of which there wasn't much, with the rain washing it down. Then more sobs and "Wala 'yon, sweethart." And then I remember getting up the next morning, still with my fluffy slippers on: the storm had stopped, the ground was clean, and the spears had stopped coming down from the sky.

A bear with so many bandages on his chest lay on the couch, sleeping.

rain-soaked brain

The scattered patches of puddles along the road infront of my office are now one. The rain and the narrow gutter-drain gave them wholeness and direction. I'm looking at the sluggish rapids through the blinds I pulled up: leaves, twigs and candy wrappers in transit.

Tis the glum season to admit defeat: I rest my forehead on the wet-opaque window: everything within eyesight--the trees, the slippery sidewalk, the lifeless road, the distant grass--has this dampened grey-brown aura of hibernating slowness.

I wonder who took my umbrella.