Bird of Lava

My Ema was the primary nurse for New Square's Rebbitzen during the '80s. I distinctly recall her smiling and waving frailly from her bedside. The curious neighborhood Orthodox Jewish children reminded me of the provincial squalor kids in Quezon City, Philippines. I'm not sure who threw stones at me anymore.

Ema worked the night shift for many years, squeezing in two hours of sleep, daily. I think I've inherited her alertness, in that respect. I take intermittent naps, throughout the day. I suppose I can wake up on time for mid-day prayers more often, actually.

Ema was really quite beautiful in her innocence and long, ebony bangs — upon immigrating Stateside. We don't talk much these days. A silent, bitter recognition. And her hair has had the natural appearance of a Sheitel since (she's a breast cancer survivor).

Each year, she plants Ampalaya in her exotic tire garden, noting the seasonal migration of ibón.

I worked as a Mental Health Worker in Westchester, New York (home to Professor Xavier's Shul for Gifted Youngsters) — where I'd have a hasty smoke during lunch breaks. Remember the time, when the concentration camps were finally liberated? When the prisoners of hope were given cigarettes by the allies: and ravaged them, they were so famished? One day, I realized I had no matches left in my book. Since Filipinos are known to scavenge for manna in wilderness shantytowns, I naturally bowed my head, my pearl vision cast to the ground, scanning the periphery about me, dejected. Like Aba. Suddenly, I notice a bird land on the stairs leading up to the entrance of the youth ward. I squint, as it pecked away, knocking on the concrete slab — weeds and tiny sticks and leaves, rustling. Instinctively, the bird soars, when I notice a single, unlit match buried among the thorns......