Sound Memory For Loreto Yballe Raechelle Yballe Her words escaped me  that thick Cebu summer  yellowed by a lazy sun, muted  lethargy seeping through.  Carachuchis sweated perfume,  she basked in the shivering hum,  freon hisses escaping louvers,  fanning liver spots splatters.  The sun beat on the helpers,  beating sheets to whiteness,  beside the whitewashed pool  where I imagined Daddy,  lanky and asthmatic, cannonballed  splashing ringlets in his wake,  the spring board's sonar bounce  plumbing the depths.  These fickle junctions fail;  the mind's ear hears  neither stories, just the flapping  of crisp Bicycles shuffling,  nor words, just Papa's ivory cane  tapping against the hollow floor -  even Chaplin had words flashing  white against a stark black screen.  Only memories of memories now,  my word-deaf world  of her creation;  she's forgotten, too.  © 1999 Raechelle C. Yballe

Phillipine Sky - Marko Tovares