Ashfall

by ROSEVILLE N. NIDEA

The morning light did not rise. 
Just a dimness folding over rooftops, 
over the Kaimito trees, 
soft as sifted flour, but heavier in the chest. 

 We stood barefoot on the steps, 
slippers forgotten, 
watching the air blur— 
the sky turning the color of wet paper, 
the distance swallowed 
by what Mayon let fall. 

 Nanay declared nothing. 
She took the basin from the porch, 
emptied the rainwater 
before it turned to mud. 
Lola once said, Ash remembers 
the fire cannot forget.

 It clung to the leaves, 
to the edge of the roof, 
to the hollow of my collarbone. 
Later, I tried to brush it off, 
but it stayed, 
fine as ash on old letters. 

 At night, my little brother coughed in his sleep. 
Nanay placed a damp cloth 
over the windows, 
but I swear Mayon kept breathing us in.