speculative portrait

A Community Writing Collaboration

Tumbleweed Found’s antique portraits come to life from the depths of imagination and out into the written word by Professor Micah Perks and three writers from her Spring Advanced Fiction Class, UCSC; Emily Pineda, Hailey Phipps and Melissa Low.

This third writing is by Hailey Phipps.

“I’ll see you at home,” Angelo said to his sister Krisel. It felt like a betrayal, calling their small house in Santa Cruz, California “home”. Calling it that made his chest ache, made his hands and feet long for the touch of the earth far away. He loved it here in Santa Cruz. He enjoyed the cool weather of the Bay, long days on the beach, the redwoods, and his neighbors. But “home” belonged to someplace else. It belonged to narrow, bustling streets. It belonged to his favorite coffee shop owned by Kuya Arnold and Ate Althea. It belonged to the Burnham rose garden where he took Maria on their first date. “Home” belonged to Baguio City in the Philippines.

Angelo returned to the desk of his small office cubicle, finding the postcard Tito Riann sent him on his last birthday.

“Happy 30th birthday!” it read, over a sunset photo of Lake Burnham. He placed his fingertips gently onto the postcard, as if expecting to feel the lake’s cool water on his skin. So many memories at that lake... But there was something about it he was failing to remember. What was it? He pulled a tattered notebook out of a drawer, and opened it to the last page. This would help him remember.

It read:

April 30, 2014

I don’t have much time left. I know that. But right now my feet won’t carry me home. Home, where Krisel and Isa and Tatay and Nanay and a bus are waiting for me. It’s as if the earth below Baguio City is reaching up with vine-like tendrils, planting my feet onto the path around Burnham Lake, preventing me from leaving. I need to stroll around Burnham Park. One last time.

Angelo was beginning to remember. Burnham Park was usually packed with families and couples enjoying the scenery, even during Bagiuo’s torrential rain storms and chilly winters. He had spent most of his teenage years lounging in the fields or floating down the lake with his two sisters. The three of them would dart right out of class with the utmost urgency, through the streets and over the hills until they reached the edge of the lake, only to laze about for hours until their mother had to personally retrieve them for dinner. The park was always filled with running children, lovey-dovey couples walking hand-in-hand, and kiosk owners selling food or baubles. But on that day, at five o’clock in the morning, it was empty. The weather had been terrible; bitterly cold wind had cut straight through Angelo’s thick sweater and right to his bones. He hadn’t cared. He needed to be there on that day, to see one last thing. But what was it? He still couldn’t remember. So he kept reading.

I said goodbye to Maria last night. She flailed her arms at me, pounding her fists onto my chest as I pulled her into a tight hug. And then she cried for a while. I was too numb to cry with her. I just held her and let her empty her tears into my sweatshirt as I stood there, my thoughts a thousand miles away. She wouldn’t want to see me again after that; it would be too painful. So who left me a note asking to meet me here?

He remembered who it was. It was his high school teacher, Sir Efren, who had handed him his diploma at graduation. Sir Efren had wanted to see Angelo before his departure to Santa Cruz, to give him something: his yearbook photo, in which he wore a sharp black suit, slicked-back hair, and and a large black bowtie that Sir Efren had given him. Angelo could never forget those details. It was something else he couldn’t remember:something written on the photograph. A note from Sir Efren. He kept reading.

There is someone here after all. I didn’t recognize him at first. His back was turned to me. But it was Sir Efren. He was paddling his feet in the water, watching a family of ducks on the lake. I approached and sat down next to him. He didn’t look up at me, just kept watching the ducks. We sat there for a while, listening to the ducks and the water and the pine trees. Finally, after what seemed like hours, Sir Efren spoke.

“You don’t have to leave, you know,” he said. “You’re an adult, Angelo. You can go wherever you want.”

“Maybe. But I need to be there for Tatay and Nanay. And my sisters. No matter how much I want to stay.”

“Well, I’ll support you no matter what you do. You’re a good kid, Angelo.” He reached into his coat and took out an oval frame with my yearbook photo inside. “I wanted to give this to you,” he said. “You look a lot like my son in this photograph. Right now, too, actually.” He handed it to me and got up to go. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll make sure to write you, Sir Efren.” “No need,” he said, giving me a slow pat on the shoulder. “You’ll come back some day. I’m sure of it.”

I watched him leave, turning the oval frame over in my hand. As I tapped it firmly against my lap, knowing all too well I had to get up and leave as well, a piece of paper slipped out from behind the frame.

This is what he needed to know. To remember. It was important, he could feel it. He continued reading. One day, Sir Efren. One day.

Attached at the bottom of the page was the same piece of paper, worn and crumpled from the passage of time. On it, in fine black ink, read:

When home doesn’t feel like home. When you want to see your old Tito Efren again. We’ll be here waiting for you to return home. To Baguio.