Yesterday the hot water ran out. As I stepped into the shower, wincing at the feel of ice cold water to my tired body, I longed for a bucket and tabo. I wanted my last memories of a cold shower to be in the sticky humidity of Manila, not the comfort of my Berkeley apartment.
Last week I did laundry. By hand. I filled a small pink tub with water and proceeded to soak, scrub, and rinse my dirty clothes in my small sink. As the water slopped over the sides of the sink onto the bathroom rug and my bare feet, I longed for dirty cement sidewalks, outdoor faucets, and community. I wanted my last memories of hand-washed laundry to include squatting outside Philcoa 1 next to the trash-filled river soaping my clothes in the middle of a thunderstorm.
Today I mourn my Manila community, my Manila sisters, my Manila family.
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1 comment:
you write really well!
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