the dying farm*

Once again the day ended without a dark cloud signaling the end of drought. Dusk drenched the sky with blood without the promise of famine's end. In the countryside, the days were unbearably long but the passage of time was not measured by the predictability of hours and months but by the inconsistent season.

“This drought is terrible. It has scorched our rice from its stalks down to its roots. We won’t have any harvest again”

Father’s tone was desperate after seeing the condition of the farm damaged by the El Nino. Tired and hopeless, he removed his hat, dropped himself onto the bamboo sofa, leaned and he pensively looked at mother waiting for a reply.

There was no reply. Mother continued to paddle her sewing machine.

“Last year, we barely had enough. It all went to our debts.” He continued.

Still, there was no reply. Mother kept herself busy with the cloth she was sewing. She measured the cloth, marked it and then she cut it almost mechanically. She ran the machine again. She didn’t say a thing. She knew what father would say next.

“If only you did allow me to sell the land, I would be working in Saudi by now. We would not have gone through this again.”

“Ramon, there you go again…”

“For as long as the time to plant and the time to harvest are dictated by the rain, there can never be security for us. We will all die with our eyes open.”

Mother stopped the paddling the machine. She folded the cloth, fixed the scissors and the marker.

“Where are the boys?” she tried to shift the conversation.

“Tell them to bring firewood in the kitchen. I’ll be cooking dinner after I am done with this. “

“Look Esperanza, the farm is slowly deteriorating, if we sell the land, it can pay more than half of my placement fee and the rest will be for salary deduction. “

“Are we going to argue about this again? You can’t sell that piece of land. You know how much I wanted to keep that.”

“Be reasonable, the farm can not support our needs anymore. I promised Tony to enroll next semester. Our son has been complaining; it’s been two years now since he graduated from high school.”

“Patience, Ramon. You see I am working like a carabao too to help you. Who knows, next year might be a good one. As for Tony, he can wait until our pig gives birth next year. Have some more faith. We survived the past.”

Father let a deep sigh, shook his head, went outside and lighted his cigarette.

Mother is extremely religious in a traditional sense. She is fatalistic and he attributes the suffering as ablution by god. She has an odd way of venerating her great forefathers and things handed to her. The piece of land was the only property handed to her. It would be sacrilegious and profane to sell the land: in its soil lies the sweat and blood of her forefathers.

During hard times, mother would just pray harder. She would bring us to the chapel every Sunday and we rub our hands at the image of ST. Joaquin, and St. Isidro Labrador, our patron saints. In the evening she would pray the rosary with us. Her faith kept her hopes alive.

My father on the other was never religious. He never joined us in our prayers. In times of trouble, his constant companion were his cigarettes. He puffs his troubles away. If the smoke failed him, he would swill his gin and sleep. Both the smoke and the wine had calming effect on him.

I thought my parents have two different religions because both have the same effect on them. It keeps them going despite suffering sand misery.

My father works over time to support the farm. My mother works overtime to support us.


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* I wrote this in my Comm Arts class long time ago.