Bebiana

Today we bury my grandmother
I am far away. Seven hundred miles as the plane flies
But I see the serried ranks of baked white headstones
Jostling for a glimpse of the regnant sun

She was as flint richly seaming
the cracked seared earth of La Union
Hers was the faith in small daily graces
And the constant redemptions of the mundane
Scraggly vegetables plucked from the unyielding soil
Rice roasted and served in tin cups for coffee
Black thick-bristled native pigs slaughtered for a feasting
Thrifty stream alive with sturdy brown children
Circled by the pungent scent of flue-cured tobacco

She was my grandmother from the north. I never
really knew her, did not speak her tongue.
I should have.
She would have known the many tales of the tribal north
The lover who stored his woman’s breath in a bamboo tube
And waited to be reunited as she floated down the river
She would have known about the trees, the grains and fruits of the land
The fish and the beasts
The songs, the rituals, the faith
She would have known what it takes
To birth a child and bury him
To dream of love and bury that too
To stay the course through ninety-odd years
Rising daily, waking at dawn, turning one’s face to a burning sun
Still smiling that Mona Lisa smile.

For my grandmother, Bebiana Amoyen, 1914-2007