Rona Garcia Pangilinan
GREENS
Whenever there was any green
in the patch of brown soil to the right of the orange tree,
I pinched and pulled it.
Raking the ground until everything was even and brown,
made me feel that the area was how it should be,
bare and smooth.
But today, there was no brown,
it was all green.
Days of rain soaked the ground,
pampered the greens, and even made them bloom.
I asked myself why I did not check for greens sooner.
Would I have caught them when there were only two, three, or four?
Oh yes, I could have.
But I would have missed writing letters and talking to friends,
reading books and quickly falling asleep,
laying a relative to rest,
cramming on a pressing task at work,
and posting birthday greetings in my favorite website.
How could I give up
daily dances with my daughter
when she puts her feet on top of mine,
as I wrap my arms around her, hum a tune,
while we dance with only two feet on the ground.
The weeds snuck in while I lived my life.
So I lifted my arms with the palms toward the sky,
put on my straw hat, coat, and surgical gloves,
and proceeded with a major operation.
I scooped the ground with a flat spade,
laid the patch of green on my palm,
and in revenge,
tickled it until it gave up the brown.
Now, as I sit on the handle of the spade,
and prop myself against the wet, cold wall,
I stare at my dirty jeans,
and thank the weeds,
for giving me a reason to stay out in the rain,
reflect, and live life some more.
