another good friday at the farm
a new year means a new holy week. this year again, my family made the pilgrimage to the farm of my godfather. this time, we brought maurice. i introduced her to my godparents as my best friend since fourth grade—my godfather smiled. you gained a new godfather today, he’d told her.
at the farm, the first thing we did was eat. as always, it’s the same mung bean soup that i’ve eaten for the past so many years, but it’s still good. how can it not be when it’s a dish carefully and lovingly selected to cater to my food restrictions (allergies, preferences, newly-adjusted diet because i now have GERD)? it was followed by a glass of iced coffee—beans from his farm. he has six coffee plants now; he used to just have one or two, back when the farm was more a house with a large garden than anything else. we had a croffle and some fish crackers (odd combination, i know), then a strawberry and candy sprinkles milkshake. the strawberry jam was made with berries from his farm, too. it wasn’t sweet at all, just the right tartness that i love and adore.
as the food kept coming, maurice looked at me and said “you are so loved here.” i smiled sheepishly.
every good friday spent at the farm—every dish served, every snack eaten, every sweet drink drank is something that feeds the 14 year old girl in me who starved herself silly; who gave up her favourite snacks in lieu of salt crackers in order to chase the concept of being skinny.
this year, my godfather took down a frame filled with medals. he had six presidential medals, all for writing.
this year again, i looked up at his carlos palanca award1 and felt that itch in me. the same itch that’s been nagging at me for years.
i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i need to write. i
this year, my food habits arise again. he has a new audience, maurice, who gathers every story like bits and pieces of treasure. i think about how a part of me was raised on a writer’s cooking; how every dish he served was a meal made with the same hands that carved stories and brought them to life, how every bite of that meal was as if i were eating a fraction of the talent that bled from his hands.
me and maurice harvested produce from his small farm: pechay, green tea, chillies, camias, bell peppers, mulberries, and cacao. we fed his fish and looked at the lone chick that had recently hatched from an incubated egg. we hung out at the new addition to his farm this year: a lower deck that further revealed the vast forest beyond their property. he tells me the mayor had given them the green light to make small developments all the way down to the river at the bottom, but he’s reluctant.
back inside, where my mom and my godmother had retreated once the sun began setting, my mom tells my dad that kaye, their eldest daughter, had asked them to be the ninong and ninang at her wedding.
my dad says of course.
i am reminded of how life keeps moving. the world, time, life—none of it waits for anyone. perhaps this year, the year i turn the Big Twenty-Five, i’ll focus on writing again; on nurturing a dream that has long died inside my heart, perhaps alongside my grandmotehrs—or perhaps alongside my life as a naive little girl.
my godfather once said we must work to be able to find steady ground to do what we love—to write. i wonder if the ground i’m standing on right now is steady enough, or maybe i must make do with the little tremors in order to pursue what i love the most.
recently, i’ve dreamt that dream again. the dream where i am standing at my favourite bookstore, in front of the bestsellers aisle, and my name is up there, on a book i’ve written and published. in that dream, i send one of the freshest copies to my godfather, with a note thanking him for extending his love towards me. for extending the roof of his home over my head.
back at the farm, i meet their new cat, soot. jet, the black cat from last year, is in another city now, with a family friend. their other cat, ash, is still there, still wary, as if i’ve not been visitng for the past so many years. their dog, taiga, is bigger now. he no longer needs the little splints that they used to keep his legs straight and help him stand.
this year, they send us home with two big bags of coffee, some chillies, a bag of fresh pechay, and a small bag of cocoa powder. for snacks, he gives us fish crackers and chicharon. once again, he pulls me aside to tell him i know where to find them in case i needed anything. again, we make plans to see each other more than once. we get in the car and pull out of their driveway once more, our car heavier than when we arrived.
this year, too, the retreat doesn’t end until we reach the expressway, where the air is warmer and the buildings look a little too modern.
while much of life is up in the air, the one thing i can be certain of is that, next year, on good friday, my family will once more, pack our overnight bags and get into the car to begin the journey to my godfather’s farm two and a half hours away from the metro; to the farm where my belly is never empty and the air is always fresh.
ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚
a song as always.
today, the pope died. i am greatly saddened by this news. my faith is complicated, but pope francis was someone who genuinely allowed me to feel the comfort of a church's roof again. rest in power, jorge.
i wrote about my good friday excursion last year in this blog entry.
it's been a while. i've been a bit busy at work and i've done some travelling as well. it's been a busy 2025! i'm off to somewhere again in two weeks... how thrilling! i've also been thinking of trying new things; learn a new language, pick up a new hobby... do something a little more exciting.
my mom's also started sending me reels about marriage and husbands so uh. welcome to almost-25? anyways, i'll try to pop in more often!!! i miss writing.
thank you for reading, as always ₍˄·͈༝·͈˄*₎◞ ̑̑
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
the palanca award is a literary award for philippine writers. it's the highest literary honour a filipino writer can receive.↩