That sensation of not knowing what you’re writing towards, yet learning the answer that completes the half-formed sentence with just as much immediacy is a thrill that I’ve come to embrace with reluctant passion over time. It is why I contradict myself on a daily basis. I both am and am not writing.
You close out the year you visited your family and buried your grandmother by spending New Year’s Eve with them all in Iloilo. You walk with your cousins through the streets of Calaparan in single file at night, hugging the road’s shoulder. The sun set hours ago, yet the heat from the day leaves a…