vinegar, soy sauce, crushed garlic, peppercorns, and bay leaves
i saw my mother mixed these
in a palayok softened to a gentle patina.

i’d like to help, but my hands
were already covered in bruises
from playing luksong baka.

“where have you been, boy?”
mother asked, as she raised the sandok,
while her eyes glued to the palayok.

i wanted to tell her i’ve been with a friend,
a boy, who pushed me into a charcoal pit
so my knees were black.

but this friend came to our house
carrying a small ointment,  bottled in green.

he smiled.

and i looked at him,  hesitant to give it back.
i learned that the ointment
was for the wounds i got
from his own mischief.

but he didn’t apologize.
instead, he sat on a dining rattan chair,
facing me.

“why is he here?
isn’t he ashamed of what he had done?”
i thought.

“oy hijo, didi nala kaon.”
mother, in a duster dress, spoke to him
while serving the paksiw,
we could smell its tangy scent
of vinegar and crushed garlic.

she managed to notice
that we might be in a little fight
so she told us that we must have our backs
for each other, always.

and we did.

twenty years later, this friend came back
to our house, redoing the scene:
carrying an ointment bottled in green.

“tita, don’t you know
he’s been crying over a stupid man?”
he spoke and laughed, childlike.

oh this boy, unaware of my charade,
as i fake drama, keeps comforting me
again and again and again.

mother served the same paksiw
and i found myself smiling,
watching him treat my home, a home.