In the home I live in, which “staying” swooped down on me, circling on days like birds, and to my mother, my hand openly touching the rough Amakan and old kawayan furniture as I lay motionless, thinking: thinking aimlessly of the possibilities of what would happen if my parents would let me go outside.

“Carlo, you have to stay at home,” my mother would say whenever I wondered to go outside alone. My mother had always been like that, strict, tight on the rules, and always keeping me away from certain topics. I once asked about something I’ve been thinking about, but the answer I received was in the face she drew: blunt and almost haplessly silent that was followed with a phrase: “You’re too young for your age to ask that kind of questions, nak. Besides, you are  just eight years old, you will not understand, anyway.” I was, after all, an eight-year-old boy. But as those words crept on me, I found myself caught, as if in a flash of light—illuminating—giving me an idea to step out to a place she called home, that to me, felt like a cage, for someone who has wings to be free.

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It was sunny afternoon, around one o’clock when I disobeyed my mother’s one and only established rule. It really took me some time and courage to sneak out on her—walking slowly as she had her rest and relaxation on a Bamboo sofa chair. At first, I thought it was a bad idea, but these frolicking flowers that I never thought we had, the sun kissing my skin, and the clamor of a can as the slippers hit against it were new to me.

 

There were ten participating in the game, and as one of the players missed its shot, I asked out loud, “What kind of game is that?”

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Their eyes were on me like I was the can. Then, a boy who has an oversized red shirt walked toward me and said, “This game is called Tumbang Preso”—then, posing with an intimidating look as his slingshot swayed—“My name is Gabriel, anyway. Would you like to join?”

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I took a pause. This is it, I thought. “Yes, I am,” I said, finally.

Under the mid-afternoon sun, playing outside was timeliness. It took a lot of shots (a lot of shots being missed) but actually, I felt rejuvenated and free. Back then, I used to imagine what it could be like to be outside, but now I know what it was. It was like how I once saw the birds twitter and flutter gleefully from one of our Mango trees, beside the Amakan window, where I watched them with wonder.

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After seconds that stretched between even longer minutes, I said, “Time pause for me, I need a break.” Then, as my breath was reaching out, I continued, pointing, “I’m just gonna take a rest, there in the crotch at that Mango tree.”

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They all agreed and then continued on playing. In the crotch of this Mango tree—three steps away from them—I sat by myself. The bright sun dappled my face, the twittering bird merged with the gush of wind, and the flicking leaves from the tree filled the gap of what my mother had established about silence. It was neither the worst nor unpleasant, for I was actually alone and on my own. As I continued observing, there was an unknowingly loud strike. I didn’t know what it was, but I was concerned about how it came from above and then perpendicularly thudded on every tree branch.

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I looked above the tree.

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Like a newborn bird seeking its food, there was a thing that fell right in front of me. It was brown and black, then its feathers swayed as it was pulled by gravity.

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I felt a wave of empathy.

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It was a Goryon bird that lay helplessly on the ground. When I tried to carefully cradle it with both hands, the bird cried and flinched its wings. The hailing cry made me consult the bird even more. From my right hand, from where it touched the right wing, there was a splat of blood—hot and fresh. From its current condition, I knew it was critically injured and I knew—with an impulse—that I had to help it. So I rushed back home without a second thought.

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“Carlo, where are you going?” I heard Gabriel asked, as he took another projectile from his slinghot.

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When I arrived at home, there was my mother, waiting with a face I hadn’t seen before. “Where have you gone, Carlo?” My mother called with concern as I stood behind the door. I saw her eyes shift from my hands. “And what about that in your hand? Is that a bird?”

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I nodded, and felt my eyes and chest started to sink.

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My mother fueled down and she walked towards me to check the bird’s condition. She cupped it with my hands and said, softly, “It is injured, Carlo, where did you find this bird?”

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“That doesn’t matter, Ma,” I answered hastily. “What can you do about it, Ma? We need to save it!”

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Looking at the bird, it was trying to live, like how people gripped their claws against the cylinder bar when the time came for them. Helplessly, the bird cried and it was descending, trying to reach out some air, but as time passed by, from the warmth of our hands, my mother and I noticed from its mouth open, wings left stroke, and the eyes stared at the sky so empty and stoned. “Ma, it’s dead,” I said, as my tears flopped to the bird’s face.

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I felt my mother's shoulder rubbed against me, and then she said, “Sometimes, no matter how hard we try, there are things we cannot change.”

 

As my mother leaned into me, closer to my ears, she whispered the word “death,” that was the first time I had heard from my mother. All this time, in my young and vulnerable ears, death was the word I kept finding, and it actually existed. Hearing it swooped down on me, like how the rule my mother established—so hard yet, felt new. Then, my mother continued, “The bird, it’s injured and it is too severe. I feel you, nak, but from its condition, it is not possible to survive.”

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At that moment, my vision seemed different around me. Maybe that was the reason my mother sheltered me because there was death outside of our home. As I had seen the bird’s eye grew dim, and took its last breath. I have understood, from where I stood beside my mother, that just like the bird, everything had an end. In the home I lived in, I witnessed the bird in my palm as my mother cupped it too, life was fragile, and it was only a matter of time before death swooped me out. Why didn’t I know about this? I didn’t know because—all this time—I was a bird too, but only, I was eight years old. ✦