I wonder if the wind carries memories.

The afternoon gust.

The line leader demands “One!” which just means we have to raise our hands forward. Then she shouts, “Two!” to put our arms down. If our class fails to do this at the same time, we won’t be able to enter our classroom.

I see my mom sewing a curtain. Or is it a table cover? And then the scenic view seen through our second-floor window captivates me.

Don’t we forget some days easily? I can’t remember what I was doing around this time yesterday, I think as I go down to follow my father’s orders to buy cola at the nearest sari-sari store. I swear to remember this day, I tell myself.

Teachers are having a meeting, so we are left with nothing to do. I grab my backpack, use it as a pillow, and then lie on the floor to take a nap.

The night breeze.

My family and I attend the last predawn mass conducted by our school. My mom takes a picture of me with my classmates.

Every girl in class curls her hair for our Greek-inspired dance. We wait for our turn. Everyone I pass by compliments me, “I didn’t know you look pretty. See what happens if you comb your hair?” I become half-flattered, half-pissed.

My best friend and I sing “Hiling” by Paramita on stage. I wonder why I feel hurt over a song that speaks about letting go when I haven’t been broken.

She goes down to her knees and begs, “Please, don’t go to Korea.” With a flat tone, I reply, “I’ll only be there for less than a month.”

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