I will never look at lovethe way you played Joni Mitchell as teenage girls and boys. I might admit I will never really know lifeat all the same way
you hold those receiptsof liquidated expenses, where you Dad,jotted a simple report of your feelingsas 50 year olds through the familiar Bisaya endearment“Langga”–perhaps not as intimate as Illonggos would meanbut love, all the same. As a teenager, I documented the process of whichyou 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 sneakedyour 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 lampsfelt nothing like lost hope.There was still the sun that rose over the roofinjecting its rays in between the grills of our windows. For seven years after I secretly wishedI’d remember how it felt to just imagine sadnesslike kids when asked to cry in junior theatreor actresses when asked to portray povertyeven if they own mansions and worship purchases ofthose jewelries, you Mom, wished you never had to pawn. You have grown so apartI’ve left calling you in 3rd person behind,overlooked sending gifts in jelled categoriesbecause complains became Bible versusand compliments turned into defense wheneverI’d mimic criticizing one of you
So I learned to adore disapproving.In fact, my professors commended my constant analyticswhich I used as staple conversation starterscommenting on people’s physical situationshiding that state at home through hilarity. But when I saw your arms around Momthat unique afternoon, I thought I was dreamingbut I finally resolved home after yearsof accepting that lack of bliss in marriage,dismissing success stories in all cynicismmajority of people have, I tried to fix the fractured bones of the house.You didn’t even notice how it had tilted a littleforcing 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 papersthat 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.