Ninong
They had no word for godfather in his native tongue. They were not Christians. It was the reason why he settled in the country, my mother always said. To escape persecution.
I looked at her puzzled, testing the word on my lips.
It’s like how you sometimes come to hide from Pio and his friends, she smiled (or teased; I had not yet learned to differentiate which). I bit my cheeks and scoffed embarrassed.
I question her no further about the topic. Neither did I point out the fact that we never encounter him in church during Sundays or at the plaza while we greet friends and neighbors after.
He was, however, always present for Christmas and Easter. My ninong Iko. I always knew he was around if a white paper crane greeted me by the banister on my way down the stairs.
The tradition had only ceased but momentarily. It was Pio’s turn to run and hide from me, red faced and stuttering. During that time an air of tension shrouded the house. Papa would be in his study for hours talking with ninong Iko. The meetings would usually end with Papa failing to acknowledge his friend’s departure. His brows would remain knitted together as he sat behind his desk in his dark musings. My godfather, declining supper, leaves the house in grimmer spirits.
I stopped receiving paper cranes.
It was not long after when news of war reached town. The headlines ran, “Manila declared OPEN CITY!”
The Japanese have arrived. And with them, my godfather.
The tradition resumed.
Along with new ones…under the floor boards and during the middle of the night.
And then one day, I had counted a thousand paper cranes in my room. If only I could wish for them to stop at that number.
---
my 300word story for a writing workshop, based on my great-aunts experience of WW2.
I looked at her puzzled, testing the word on my lips.
It’s like how you sometimes come to hide from Pio and his friends, she smiled (or teased; I had not yet learned to differentiate which). I bit my cheeks and scoffed embarrassed.
I question her no further about the topic. Neither did I point out the fact that we never encounter him in church during Sundays or at the plaza while we greet friends and neighbors after.
He was, however, always present for Christmas and Easter. My ninong Iko. I always knew he was around if a white paper crane greeted me by the banister on my way down the stairs.
The tradition had only ceased but momentarily. It was Pio’s turn to run and hide from me, red faced and stuttering. During that time an air of tension shrouded the house. Papa would be in his study for hours talking with ninong Iko. The meetings would usually end with Papa failing to acknowledge his friend’s departure. His brows would remain knitted together as he sat behind his desk in his dark musings. My godfather, declining supper, leaves the house in grimmer spirits.
I stopped receiving paper cranes.
It was not long after when news of war reached town. The headlines ran, “Manila declared OPEN CITY!”
The Japanese have arrived. And with them, my godfather.
The tradition resumed.
Along with new ones…under the floor boards and during the middle of the night.
And then one day, I had counted a thousand paper cranes in my room. If only I could wish for them to stop at that number.
---
my 300word story for a writing workshop, based on my great-aunts experience of WW2.