Creek Line

My room is parallel to the creek that used to reek with garbage some years ago. Now, it only has slow moving, smell-free water on rocks surrounded by small plants which I cannot name because I'm neither a botanist nor an environmentalist. There are trees outside my room - mango, jackfruit, banana (not a tree, but a plant?), kamias, and guava (which is now just a dead wood). These I can name because, well, I eat them.

And I wonder why can't the rest of nature's bodies be this way - from junk to greens? Better yet, why can't everyone be like my mother? Early in the morning, one can hear her sweeping the grounds with a broomstick (no, she isn't a witch) which is more like a prayer than a clockwork. Later, she will carry all the swept trash to the old pig sty to burn them. The smoke becomes the trees' breakfast of bacon and tea.

My mother has learned the language of the wind that my room is no longer a victim of unwanted smoke that used to turn me into a human tinapa.

And often, I write my blog in this room. My blog so named, the Creek Line.

And yes, mother is down by the creek, cleaning the area for the day ahead.