The colors as vivid as your duster dresses

It's always the details that matter. That's why it's easy to track liars. They never get the details right. Storytellers are better liars, because they have mastered the details. I've never thought of it as a talent, much less, a skill. But I can always remember the details. I remember the smell, the weather, the mood. It's always so vivid in my head. That's why forgetting to me requires excessive effort. Never believe when I say I don't care. I do. Most of time, more than you do. But I will never admit to that. I am not indifferent. The reason I am mostly detached is because I get mostly attached. So I am careful where to put my attention, because my attention is always my greatest enemy. My attention equals my motivation. I choose which detailed memory to remember. Because I always remember.

Naturally when Inang died, I remember the details the most. I remember her smell. I can close my eyes right now and give you all the layers. Ivory soap. Faint lavender. Baby oil. Sweat. Newly ironed cotton. Sour. Very sour. But addicting sour. Baby powder.

I remember the white polo shirt. Collared. Adorned with pink flowers. She gave it me. She was proud and excited. She loved that shirt. I hated it. She made me wear it on several occasions. I despised it. Now I wish I have kept it. Now I wish I still have it.

I remember the way she walked. Very slow, but stable. She would make this sound, a shoosh. It's her slippers, brushing against her linoleum floors. She would hold my hand very softly. She's very careful not to grip. Her fingers barely folding. Like air. Like paper. Afraid to crease. It's always cold, but thickened through years of house chores. Her nails are groomed. Clean. Sophisticated. Never painted.

I remember her face, at war with time. Fighting hard against sagging. Her brows almost untraceable. Her lids drooping like she's sleeping. Uneven shape of the eyes. One slightly bigger, but mostly chinita. Her smile. Rare and usually comes with a fake dismay. Like she hates the world, but because you're in it, it's bearable. Her nose small. Small round nostrils. Shy bridge. Freckles scattered. Misplaced, some would call it. Her face shape, round, but like ice cream on a hot summer day, it's melting. Gravity has marked it for traces of aging.

I remember her paksiw. The smell of vinegar in her kitchen, followed by the sound of deep frying, and the smell of grease. She'd make a batch of pritong bangus for me. Like a symphony, it ends with an exclamation. An announcement. Zet, kakain na. It's not an invitation. She will eat without you if you don't come within the next ten minutes. She will not be sorry. And don't bring anything to the table except for your appetite. She does not accept phones as a mode of distraction.

I miss you, Inang. When I do, I remember the details. That's when it hurts. Because I can see it all, like a picture painted in my head. The colors as vivid as your duster dresses.