baby teeth
I don't know why I remember one of my baby front teeth getting pulled out. I was six. It was December — everyone on our block was feeling festive because of the Christmas party. A bunch of kids were playing games: musical chairs, "bring-me", pabitin and more. The adults were grilling barbecue, laughing and drinking while watching the games. There were banderitas and parols around the compound and the air was filled with music. There was karaoke somewhere. I remember the last game of the night involved an apple on a string. The first kid to eat the biggest chunk of the apple in a minute wins.
a certain slant of light
I don't know why I remember a certain slant of light over a decade ago. It was around 7am. I got off the jeepney that was supposed to take me to my criminally early Spanish class. I stood near a waiting shed facing a wide field of grass. There was a quietness, a dimness to the place. Old acacia trees marked the edges of the field and lined the roads of the campus. They towered. When I looked up, I saw the sky in thin winding veins between the crowns of the trees. All the light that came in was diffused by them. But in the fork of the road, the field lay open in the morning light. Clusters of grass in waves. Green wildness. The thin drops of dew on each blade gave the light a soft glow. The sunlight pooled in this place, angled low and uninterrupted. The shadows of the trees framed the scene like a vignette. Barely any students walked by. I was alone, late for class. The field was humming with light.