Papang is haunted
by the ghost of the bicycle
in the backyard.
Its bones,
twisted and bare,
lie open to the rain—
a frame in mourning,
needing to be wheeled
to the scrapyard’s chapel of rust.
“It’s falling apart! Still biking
at witching hour—
even the dead can smell the metal!”
Mamang chants her scorn,
clattering pots,
throwing glances
like knives toward Papang,
who scowls at the youngest,
enthralled and unmoving
in his insect hunt on the glowing screen:
Ledyba. Catterpie. Wheedle.
Papang won’t meet my eyes.
And I hesitate
to rise, to buy his cigarettes.
I trace the path
of my boyhood once more—
that same unlit street
still waiting
to be paved with forgiveness.
Here, I first learned
to fear the belt,
not ghosts.
Here, to smirk was sin,
and frowning, defiance.
It was by the ar-arusip tree,
beneath the crossing wires,
where he once fed me
the beetle I captured.
And his voice echoed,
sharp as dog-bark in my mind:
“Must I ride a wheelchair
just to buy a pack of smokes?!”
I’m like a bicycle with its chain
snapped loose.
