It takes a field

When I think of hope, I think of the field across the creek next to us. The same field that would go up in flames almost every summer when I was a child. The same field that strangers—lunatics, my grandfather would say—would set on fire for fun. The same field that would be blackened in ash and cinder, flat and steaming, after hours of putting the fire out. The same field that burned once, I heard, because of a woman who, upon finding out that her husband was cheating on her, locked him inside their house by the field and set everything ablaze. The same field that would take almost a year to grow back, yet faithfully, its para grass and barnyard grass and all the sugarcane blades and slivers of cogon. The same field that would have stray dogs howling by the black eye of 4 a.m. and have them, in the yolk of the sunrise, running and chasing each other in the collapse and expanse of the field. The same field that held the creek by its nail when it was still clear and blue. The same field that still holds the creek when it’s now murky and milky in pollution and trash. The same field that my father and his brother used to play in. The same field that the neighborhood kids I grew up with would sneak to, when their mothers and fathers weren’t looking. The same field that I have never been in. The same field I once dreamed I would have my first kiss in. The same field that has tokay geckos and rat snakes that would get into our houses and bathrooms. The same field that sounded like birdsong for all its Maya birds, Maria Capra, egrets, turtledoves, quails, and pygmy woodpeckers. The same field I cannot hear now, by my deafness or by the birds’ disappearances. The same field that cradled sparkles of fireflies, these stars, these little centuries. The same field that no longer has them. The same field that we buried my dog Sophie in. The same field that would soften into a marsh every Habagat season in the Philippines. The same field that is struggling against buyers who want to turn it into a subdivision. The same field that has always lived for itself. The same field from the overlook of my grandparents’ bedroom window. The same field from the overlook of my bedroom window. The same field we look at when we don’t know where else to look. The same field that has sheltered the tear of dawn, without fail, without fragility, without death, every time. The same field that has always been the same field.

Issue 7

https://manyworlds.place/issue-7/julia-hao/

by Julia Hao

When I think of hope, I think of the field across the creek next to us. The same field that would go up in flames almost every summer when I was a child. The same field that strangers—lunatics, my grandfather would say—would set on fire for fun. The same field that would be blackened in ash and cinder, flat and steaming, after hours of putting the fire out. The same field that burned once, I heard, because of a woman who, upon finding out that her husband was cheating on her, locked him inside their house by the field and set everything ablaze. The same field that would take almost a year to grow back, yet faithfully, its para grass and barnyard grass and all the sugarcane blades and slivers of cogon. The same field that would have stray dogs howling by the black eye of 4 a.m. and have them, in the yolk of the sunrise, running and chasing each other in the collapse and expanse of the field. The same field that held the creek by its nail when it was still clear and blue. The same field that still holds the creek when it’s now murky and milky in pollution and trash. The same field that my father and his brother used to play in. The same field that the neighborhood kids I grew up with would sneak to, when their mothers and fathers weren’t looking. The same field that I have never been in. The same field I once dreamed I would have my first kiss in. The same field that has tokay geckos and rat snakes that would get into our houses and bathrooms. The same field that sounded like birdsong for all its Maya birds, Maria Capra, egrets, turtledoves, quails, and pygmy woodpeckers. The same field I cannot hear now, by my deafness or by the birds’ disappearances. The same field that cradled sparkles of fireflies, these stars, these little centuries. The same field that no longer has them. The same field that we buried my dog Sophie in. The same field that would soften into a marsh every Habagat season in the Philippines. The same field that is struggling against buyers who want to turn it into a subdivision. The same field that has always lived for itself. The same field from the overlook of my grandparents’ bedroom window. The same field from the overlook of my bedroom window. The same field we look at when we don’t know where else to look. The same field that has sheltered the tear of dawn, without fail, without fragility, without death, every time. The same field that has always been the same field.

When I think of hope, I think of this field.

Julia Hao is an undergraduate from Ateneo de Manila University, majoring in Creative Writing. Her literary works and art have been published by the University of the Philippines’ Likhaan journal, Gantala Press, Novice Magazine PH, HEIGHTS Ateneo, the GUIDON, en*gendered, and Perceptions International. She is also the Founding President of Spaces for Women’s Art and Narratives (SWAN). For more, you can linger in her Instagram, @juliaavhao.