Granduncle Nyong

by Laurehl Onyx Cabiles

My bachelor granduncle always sits on the corner of the terrace

made out of bamboo, unpacking old Bibles, reading

three translations: Hiligaynon, Filipino, and English, without

letting the words escape his mouth. Not once did I hear him

speak. Even when young pastors preached in their ragged church

and quoted the wrong verses, he did not question

their teachings. He keeps to himself

whatever he discovered, like a monk committing

a vow of silence in that old Russian film. The penance

he carries is what I will never know. Once in the several times

I visited Upper Lamian, I instantly occupied the space

beside him, burying my face in Dostoevsky’s book, and I wondered

how would he receive the rattling doubts enveloping

my mind if I ever unwrapped them to him, but I knew

that old man does not share the treasures he holds. So I

diverted my attention to the banana trees that hugged

their entire village, as I tried to restrain

my hasty mouth from running, but silence is still

a skill I could not master.