Somewhere there is a feast. At the center of a house is a table filled with meat, chicken, fish, and wine — basked in chronicles of memories narrated by friends and relatives. Observe how each one speaks in sepia tones and dines in stories.
There is laughter even before the punchline arrives. Observe the listeners hardly restraining themselves as they wait for that one word that will open a dam of chuckles.
There is a comforting silence hidden underneath the exchanges of kumusta and ayos lang po ako.
Listen. They’re talking about our ancestors whose names remain a mystery to me. They utter the name of the forgotten living, and the unforgotten dead. A flicker of memory sparks a narrative of vignettes delivered in chunks passed along by mouths filled with wine and remembering.
We are made of stories.
“Trust dreams. Trust your heart, and Trust your story.” [Neil Gaiman, Instructions]