The Blanket
But take something before you leave, said the farmer as an afterthought, you have to take something, he insisted, and he walked to the wooden chest by the closet adjacent to the bed, unlocked it, and pried a faded, musty piece of cloth underneath the pile of memorabilia — an old locket, plastic jade rosaries, letters, pictures, and a yellowing wedding dress.
He forced it to her hand. Take the blanket she made, he said, his eyes stoic, his leathery hands forcing the cotton blanket to her hands. She hesitated as blood rushed to her face, turning her ears and cheeks red, while the silence between them ached to be filled — but what was there to say? She grabbed it finally and stuffed the cloth inside her bag, and he said, Manang will be waiting for you at the station, I will be fine here, and you there, far away from here.
It was far away enough. Far away not to hear what the neighbors said, who talked about the girl and the farmer whose wife died two months ago. The poor woman had a heart attack out of shock and anger, the neighbors gossiped: a wife and mother gasping to her last breath muttering, my husband, my husband and my daughter.
EVAN TAN is a 25-year old writer from the Philippines. He contributes to the lifestyle section of the country's oldest broadsheet, The Manila Times. He is currently working on a short film project which he plans to submit to this year's upcoming annual Cinemalaya independent film festival.
But take something before you leave, said the farmer as an afterthought, you have to take something, he insisted, and he walked to the wooden chest by the closet adjacent to the bed, unlocked it, and pried a faded, musty piece of cloth underneath the pile of memorabilia — an old locket, plastic jade rosaries, letters, pictures, and a yellowing wedding dress.
He forced it to her hand. Take the blanket she made, he said, his eyes stoic, his leathery hands forcing the cotton blanket to her hands. She hesitated as blood rushed to her face, turning her ears and cheeks red, while the silence between them ached to be filled — but what was there to say? She grabbed it finally and stuffed the cloth inside her bag, and he said, Manang will be waiting for you at the station, I will be fine here, and you there, far away from here.
It was far away enough. Far away not to hear what the neighbors said, who talked about the girl and the farmer whose wife died two months ago. The poor woman had a heart attack out of shock and anger, the neighbors gossiped: a wife and mother gasping to her last breath muttering, my husband, my husband and my daughter.
EVAN TAN is a 25-year old writer from the Philippines. He contributes to the lifestyle section of the country's oldest broadsheet, The Manila Times. He is currently working on a short film project which he plans to submit to this year's upcoming annual Cinemalaya independent film festival.
