by Victor Fernando R. Ocampo
Opathan | Danghus | Thursday
It was a gentle late-afternoon, pink and gold like a burden of beach roses. Tala was helping her grandfather harvest sweet potatoes with their small pod of harvester baskets. A carillon of bells pealed somewhere in the distance. The seven-year old quickly squatted down, excited and wide-eyed, as a swarm of floating air jellies suddenly streamed overhead, their amorphous, opalescent bodies twinkling like stars. Just seeing them made her heart sing with joy at the sheer awesomeness and wonder of existence.
Her grandfather’s loud chuckle broke her reverie. “They descend from the ocean every night,” he teased, “yet every time it’s like you’ve never seen them before.”
“Lolo,” she asked, mildly irritated at her elderly companion, but still careful to use the ancient Filipino honorific for grandfather, “have you ever seen the ocean?”
“One day soon I will, my child,” he whispered, his voice hoarse as an old rocket engine, as the two of them filled a floating basket with the fattest, most purple sweet potatoes. “Any time now I will have to return to her, to Mother Ocean.”
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