I was in third grade, and for our English homework, Ms. Rivero instructed us to copy verbatim onto a piece of paper, via longhand, a poem from our textbook. Then, we would illustrate our visual interpretation of it on the white space surrounding the text. The following morning, before leaving for school in the afternoon, I started working on my assignment.

After breakfast, my mother, all dressed up for work, saw me put the finishing touches to the illustrations that bordered the poem. Wide-eyed, she asked (in Filipino):

Did you do this?!

Me: Yes, Ma!

Mother: I'm so proud of you! I'm going to buy you that bike!

Then, with face lit aglow like the dawn a few hours earlier, mother left for the college where she taught. Post-lunch, I dragged myself to school with the nagging feeling that we meant and understood things differently. I also soon realized that I wasn’t going to get that bike: the carrot dangling from the stick, the bait my father used to motivate me to earn high grades.

When my mother returned that night, she asked me again but was more specific, "Did you really write that poem?" I replied and was likewise more particular, "I did the drawings, Ma."

And that was the closest I’ve ever gotten to a bike of my own.

By Karlo Sevilla

From: Philippines

Website: https://karlosevillaofquezoncity.blogspot.com/

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