stepping out of the muggy, half enclosed bus stop, into the cool manhattan evening after a sudden summer rain, i tried hard to shake off old but yet unforgotten songs rising out of my heart - of fishwives, anxious of their day old stock, their eyes now reddening, of old drunk geezers, congregating around a fast emptying gallon of extra tart, month-old coconut wine, of strapping young fisher boys, rolling carefully their just mended nets, like meshy bridal gowns, into their tightly water sealed boats, of my mother, rushing out of the house, brandishing a towel, half shrieking, por dios, anak, as soon as she saw me running from school, soaked in the rain, clumsily unhinging open our bamboo gate, her scolding as stern and warm as a vesper plainsong.
