Hezron Pios earned his degree in AB Communication from the University of St. La Salle, where he served as editor-in-chief of The Spectrum and literary editor of The Lead. He attended the 56th Silliman University National Writers Workshop and 18th IYAS National Writers Workshop. His poems have appeared in Buglas, ffraid, Glucose, Katitikan, Scribe, Yuwana, and elsewhere. Currently, he pursues journalism. His other interests include film, music, and tidying. He lives in Bacolod City.
after "The Parable of the Sparrow" by Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta
Remember Bao? How diabetes got the best of him? That weeks before his passing his right leg had been amputated? Or was it the left one? The answer depends on the apán of Purok 2, Brgy. Palaka. One day, Bao made his own dance studio out of sticks and fervor. The next day he taught us how to break our bones so easily. Back then, Bao seemed like a real instructor of a real company. And we, his willing students. Yet the blight never truly parched. The summer rain was unforgiving. At 8, I attended his wake. Sporting a sky blue shirt, I animated his favorite tinge. My sister and I sat in the palest row. Stillness. She wept without sound. She wept with tears that rivaled Bao’s mother. She wept and wept as if she were his lover. On the backs of my hands were dots forming a map. Trust his way, my sister said. Then I shut my eyes. Flash aplenty. The scene morphed to me waltzing with herons. We leapt from storm clouds to carabao ponds. The fields of palay and tubo seemed horizonless. Tricycles soared with their vrooming. Nothing made sense until Bao arrived, dressed in white. Long have I waited to see him again. My muscles went supple. Only he was the true choreographer. Only he was the one who knew the subtlest gesture of happiness.