v3
Yes. There are things better left unsaid. But Mama,
I have built a poem in the shape of a cabinet.
I confess I was incensed when I saw him wearing my clothes;
that old dress shirt—the pink one—
and the spotted yellow tie that I disliked.
It was like watching a silent movie of amassed uncertainties;
hands and feet tied on a chair, I am forced to digress.
Mama, you were my church.
I opened the cabinet once to exhume that dark blue shirt
and the tie that worked well with it. It was a joint celebration
of your nephew’s wedding and my walk of shame
as the year’s greatest prodigal son.
But I kept that cabinet shut on most days
my puberty stuffed there
along with used prayers and supplications
smelling like the mothballs
you still drop there sometimes.
With my conscience, I drew a story on the sand.
You climbed the stairs toward the cabinet weeks after I left
arriving at layers upon layers of sin
you stayed there long enough to yield at the thought,
‘He will never wear them again.’
You yourself chose the colors of those clothes.
You yourself picked them out of the laundry basket
to soak them on the blood of the lamb.
You yourself rubbed them together
before the skin of your palms split open to the Lord.
You yourself laid each of them on that iron horse
on many Sunday mornings while I waited for them
in exchange for a kiss.
They are as much yours as they are mine.
And you only did what I couldn’t do.
v2
It all started after I saw tito wearing
my old dress shirt—the pink one—and my tie
that yellow one with spots I disliked.
I saw him through the window
of your house
trying to start his motorcycle
on his way to church.
I used to keep that shirt and that tie
along with the others, along with the pants,
in that old mahogany cabinet upstairs.
I knew I may never wear them again.
But I kept them still
in that purgatory of Sunday clothes.
I opened the drawer once to exhume
the dark blue shirt with thin white stripes
and the navy-blue tie that worked well with it.
It was your nephew’s wedding.
My first time to see your family again
years after I left the church.
But except for that one occasion,
those clothes were mostly stuffed there
in that casket of used memories,
smelling like the mothballs
you still dropped there sometimes.
As tito drove past the window,
I started asking myself
when I may have given those clothes to him.
I can’t remember.
When I left for Los Baños,
I brought a single luggage.
Intent to change my skin,
I promised to buy new clothes.
That was when the thought dawned on me.
It must’ve been you who gave them away.
I was incensed at first.
I felt betrayed. But then
I thought about how you
must’ve opened each drawer of that cabinet
weeks after I left.
Arriving at that pile
of dress shirts, pants, and ties,
you must’ve stared at them
long and hard
before yielding to the thought
that I will never wear them again.
I thought about how you yourself
chose the colors of those clothes
when you bought them for me.
I thought about
how many times you picked
each of them out of the laundry basket.
How many times you soaked them
in the tub. How many times
you rubbed them together
with your palms. How many times
you laid each and every one of them
over that ironing horse
on a Sunday morning.
Those clothes were as much yours
as they were mine. And you only did
what I couldn’t do.
One Sunday, during a visit to my parents, I saw my uncle wearing not only one of my old dress shirts but also one of my ties. The yellow one with spots I used to dislike. I saw him from inside the house through the window, trying to get his tricycle started. He and his family on their way to church.
I used to keep that shirt and tie along with the others, along with the pants, in a drawer upstairs. I knew I wouldn’t wear them again. But I kept them still in that purgatory of Sunday clothes. Once, I opened the drawer. Exhumed the dark blue shirt with thin white stripes and the navy blue tie that worked well with it. It was a cousin’s wedding. My first time to see the family again after I left the church many years ago. Except for that one occasion, those clothes were mostly stuffed in there, smelling like the wooden casket that swallowed them and the mothballs my mother still dropped in there occasionally.
As my uncle and his family drove past the window, I started asking myself when I may have given those clothes to him. I can’t remember. When I left for Los Baños five years ago, I brought a single luggage. Like a snake changing its skin, I promised to buy new clothes to signify a life starting anew.
Now the thought just dawned on me. It must’ve been my mother who gave my clothes to him. I was incensed at first. Why didn’t she ask for my permission? I said.
But then, I imagined my mother opening each drawer of that cabinet weeks after I left. Arriving at that pile of dress shirts, pants, and ties, she must’ve stared long and hard at them before yielding to the thought that her son will never return. Will never wear them again. Or would outgrow them first before he returns—if ever. She must’ve remembered how many times she picked each piece out of the laundry basket. How many times she soaked them in the tub. How many times she rubbed them together with her palms. How many times she hung them on the clothesline to dry. How many times she laid each and every one of them over that ironing horse on a Sunday morning.
Those clothes were as much hers as they were mine. And she only did what I couldn’t do.