The Woes of a Daughter

November 21, 2024 (3:22 PM)

3 min read

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<p>Illustration by Starlet Deanne Noveno</p>

Illustration by Starlet Deanne Noveno

    Written by:

    Ma. Sophia Antigua
    Trainee Literary Writer

    Tags:

Papa, I do not know your sacrifices

I only know the pot belly from liquor,

the balding head from age

The stern voice that tells me to keep the flashlight still,

while your hands are kept occupied 

by tools I never learned the names of

The same heavy hands that left

permanent fingerprints on my cheek

Burning my face with shame, 

branded with scorch marks immemorial 

Papa, I hate to admit it

but I’ve never looked at you the same way since

When our eyes do meet,

I can’t help but grieve

how yours have grown tired 

and your hands have started to get shaky

No longer do I cower when you raise it, 

for I know, it is slow and old from years of hard work

In making sure our mouths are fed

and our bodies are clothed

Whereas paper-white scars and rugged skin

play hide-and-seek with my eyes

from the tatters of your button-down shirt

And the unpatched seams of ripped jeans

Yet, there is sadness 

when you avert your gaze 

and beckon mama to sit 

at the dining table

where some chairs are empty,

and most conversations are unkind

Mama, I do not know your melancholy

I am only familiar with your calloused hands from laundry,

the crow’s feet and smile lines etching your face

The humming to Que Sera Sera,

and your habit of idle gossiping

while sharing disdainful glances with your friends

You should see how I cower at your hushed whispers

Just as I cower at the creak of floorboards

from the sound of your footsteps during sleepless nights

Mama, pray tell,

do you still talk about me to them

with the same pride you did when I was younger?

Perhaps you do

except not anymore with pride, nor with shame

but the line between the two

 that people say is “worry”

Worry as you did when I chose a career you did not approve of

Worry as you did when I threw myself crying in your arms

Mama, papa, I am sorry

If my mouth is uncouth and my eyes are contemptuous

Still, I hope there is time to rectify my actions 

I hope there is time for violence to no longer hurt

For your personalities shaped mine

and I am still learning how to unlearn them



End the silence of the gagged!

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