Sunday Morning (2003)
On the bed I share with my mother, I lay still patiently waiting for the sun to rise. The color of the sky, which can be seen through the open windows of our room located on the second floor of my grandmother’s house, is a deep indigo. Soft breezes from the south come and go as they please through these windows, making the translucent white curtains dance. The humid air, which is usually thick and heavy, is still light and cool. The smell of morning dew on fresh grass fills my lungs as I breathe deeply concentrating on falling back asleep.
With my eyes closed I hear at first the soft chirps of the early birds. Faint and sporadic in the beginning, eventually building into a welcoming crescendo. It’s the perfect background noise for everyone else to wake up to. After the birds are always the roosters. The rooster’s strained crow to the rising sun rivals the wolf’s howl to the full moon. These drawn out cries of the roosters wakes everyone else in this secluded Philippine countryside, acting as a 5 minute warning for those late to work.
What comes next are the unbolting of the doors and the creaking of the windows. The sound of hard brooms made out of coconut bristles sweeping the outside dirt; soft brooms made of phragmite grass brushing the inside wooden floors. The pitter patter of feet in flip flops. You can always tell if someone is wearing flip flops. The starting of rumbling engines from the motorized pedicab drivers driving everyone to work. The smell of human activity: gas fumes from motors intertwined with smoke rising from outside barbeque fires now overcome my lungs. Indecipherable shouting from the man driving a tricycle around town trying to sell a popular breakfast food: soft tofu drowned in sweet syrup. The sound of jingling coins being exchanged.
Then I heard the pigs. The pigs greet the morning with soft snorts from their pen located in my backyard below my room. When the house boy arrives and fills their feed with watered down leftovers from last night’s dinner, their snorts get louder and faster. As they finish their breakfast the snorts turn soft again, eventually fading into sleep and silence as fullness overcomes them.
The sky, now the color of soft yellow haze, prompts me to fall back asleep.
An hour later I am awakened by the pigs’ high-pitched squeals. Muffled shouts of older men shouting instructions to younger boys. Squealing then more squealing. Squealing screams to a crescendo. Squealing against the sounds of the birds and the roosters and the brooms and the people. The sound of struggle. The sound of the last seconds of life. Then silence.
I look up at the ceiling and can’t help but imagine the tips of knives protruding soft, plump flesh. Sundays are slaughter days. Helpless, I lay still on the bed I share with my mother.
Sunday Morning (2017)
I wake up to sunlight softly beating on my eyelids. The first thing I see when I open them is white. White linens. White walls. In this little college beach house of mine everything is pristine. As I make my bed I hear the birds outside talk amongst themselves on tree tops, but I hear nothing else.
