Sorting Rice

“Tell me about love,

Mama.”

I used to say.

*

Remember the swish of rice

across the bilao?

Tssst

shhh

tssst

shhh.

* 

And how the bad ones would fall through the cracks

making ping ping noises on the sides of the tin bucket?

 *

I asked if that was love.

The bad ones seemed to rejoice at the beautiful sound they made

because they were no good to eat in the end.

 *

You only told me to stop talking and shake harder.

Rice needed to be cooked that night for dinner.

 *

Remember,

the sound of silk against nylon?

Bag, black and bulging

from the weight of your pleated skirts,

black high heels,

and blouses?

 *

You said you were leaving because you loved us.

Was that love, Mama?

 *

Sh sh sh sh.

I knew it.

The sound of your slippers on the hardwood floor.

When you lifted the covers,

I was afraid.

I thought the cockroaches would crawl under the sheets

and bite, leaving swelling lumps on my arms.

* 

You always came back, Mama.

 *

Remember,

when you combed my hair,

singing Phantom of the Opera in my ear?

So quiet,

you would tug on my hair if I sang the wrong verse.

 *

That felt like love to me, Mama.

 *

It’s been a long time.

Tell me about love now.

It’s not the sound of sorting rice, is it?

There are no farmers around here

shouting, waving gaily, from a stinking countryside gutter,

“Mabuhay! Mabuhay!”

Did you live like they told you to, Mama?

They had so much faith, didn’t they?

 *

When you put that needle to your veins,

is that what you meant by love?

Because Daddy did it,

was it out of love then, too?

 *

Tell me about love, Mama.

It’s been a long time.

* 

When he put his fist to your face

and called you a bitch,

was that love?

* 

I don’t understand.

You said there are all kinds of love.

What kind is that?

 *

Remember,

how Kuya put welts on my back

with the metal end of the suspenders?

There were blue and yellow race cars on them.

* 

I cried. You told me that he just played roughly

because he forgot I wasn’t a boy,

but he still loved me.

So I kissed him on the cheek and said,

“I forgive you, Kuya.”

I felt like the red on his cheeks was love, Mama.

* 

You said boys had a special kind of love,

a strong love.

 *

I’m still not sure I heard you right

because your lip was swollen

from the bowl that was thrown.

“Daddy slipped,”

you said.

 *

A strong love, Mama?

I don’t think I believe in that kind of love anymore.

* 

We haven’t sang to Phantom of the Opera in a long time.

Since we came to America,

you haven’t left us.

You’re afraid you won’t come back.

Isn’t that right, Mama?

I think that’s love.

 *

So let all the light collect on the rice in your hands.

Does it keep you warm?

Does it make you smile?

*

Mama, you’ll be laughing so loud

that the house will shake with sound.

* 

Shhhh,

I hear you

even if you don’t sing anymore.

* 

Oh, Mama,

when you smile,

it is like a song.

I can hear it now.

Yes, I can hear it now.

Your love is the sorting rice kind, Mama.

You even love the bad ones.