Cyan Abad-Jugo

ade attended by two million people on a 26-kilometer route, from Sto Domingo Church to the Manila Memorial Park (Sumpay 29).

We followed t

Goro took one look at his inquiring face from under her pillow, then waved him away. She did not want him to see her crying; she could tell her eyes were already swollen.

Someone else was fumbling at the doorknob. Keys. Of course, this house was not really her house. This room was not really her room. They had keys. She was a prisoner. She listened for the inevitable.
There was o

course, this house was not really her house. This room was not really her room. They had keys. She was a prisoner.

Kuya Alan to her left, and her mother to her right, burst out laughing. Goro bristled. As if she were not even there. Her mother elbowed her in a joking manner, but there was something forced about her smile. Goro could not even bring herself to smile back.
And then, all too soon, they were on the pavement just outside the International Airport, bidding her mother goodbye. Mama kissed everyone and kept Goro waiting, while all around them other families, couples, friends, lingered, laughed, cried, and said their farewells. At last Mama was kissing and hugging Goro, and telling her to obey Tita Leanna in all things. Goro nodded, then, in the last minute, hugged her mother back. “I’ll write,” her mother promised, and then she was gone.