Riding out the storm

By Emmenuelle

It was the most awful day to have a birthday, but then, no one knew it would turn out so.

The cake was bought a day before, two other cakes were to be brought down from the city. She so loved cakes, especially when creamy-smooth mocha icing is finger-dipped and happily wiggly on its way to her lips.

The spaghetti noodles pinched just right, too, the thick meaty sauce plenty enough to drown in, with cheese to spare. The spareribs swam in calamansi soy ready to broil. The salad waited abed to be tossed about.     

There were no guests expected, just the closest of relatives. This was the one and only day they could have her for themselves. She was so gone most of the time.

The wind began to stir uncomfortably strong in the morning, the rain it brought splattering everywhere. She was not bothered. She was used to the brashness of the highland weather and the roughness of the island storms. If she were not looking out for one or the other of the kin to arrive, she would stand just at the edge of the lawn to bask in the bliss of cold wetness. The heat of the previous days had banished from sniffing distance.

Events after turned no better.

The kin from the metro arrived at midday, straight unto turbulence. The kin from the mountain city fared worse; the road down was swiftly stacking up on debris.  

When night warped off the dusk, terrible Cosme hunkered down to task.  He sucked in the air and puffed out winds ripping out leaves, branches, trunks. The roots came tumbling after. Coils of wire to hold laundry, electricity and cabled feeds were snakes whirling, whipping, whacking away. Nails and rivets were too puny to hold on to the roofs on their heads. The roofs flew to land on other houses two or three fields away.

Cosme did not distinguish landed from gentry; he dropped trees and concrete walls and poured water on hapless heads and bodies and limbs. There was no way one can run during the cutting, chopping, hurling frenzy. One can only huddle and pray and wish the night to be over.         

And frightening of it all – the night was alive in moonlight.

When Sun, Smart and Globe finally stunned themselves to silence, the lifeline messages stopped coming. Houses shuttered themselves in, but then, there was no shutting out the gusting of the wind. It clamored in, banging and knocking-out windows, pouring in, gracious-me, waterfalls! through every holes and openings.

Before the day ended, near midnight, the birthday girl and her family gathered around a small table in the only dry place in the ancient house – the hallway leading to all rooms. At one side of the table, the cake kneeled crumbly and dipped-unto. The spareribs burnt-fried not broiled. The spaghetti didn’t look like it would last another round; it was good for lunch, snack, and dinner though. No salad left to sog.

They held hands. In the silence of the eye of the storm, they prayed:

Lord, please save what you must. Let you and us smile, though, for a mile. She may also be a storm, a lightning, a rumble all her own. We thank you, for on this day, you gave us, our child of May.

(Readers may reach columnist at jingmil@yahoo.com. For past columns, click http://sundaypunch.prepys.com/archives/category/opinion/feelings/
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