Champorado

13

NAUNANG nagising si Jiya kaysa kay Migo.

She's spent the past ten minutes in the quiet, squinting against the light, staring at the peace on his face.

Gently, she reaches out with her hand, and brushes the pad of one little finger on his cheek.

Jiya's lips tilt upwards when he scrunches his nose at the touch. She lays her head on his chest and tries to memorize his face, etch it into memory, imagine what it'll look like when there's wrinkles all over smooth skin, when the black of his hair gets washed out with gray and the strands start to fall from its roots like apples on a tree—and he'll still smile at her like the same Migo, and he'll still have eyes that admire her like the same Migo. He'll still have lips that kiss her like the same Migo.

She finds his hand under the covers, and very, very carefully, traces his pinky with hers. She imagines how it'll feel like when it goes numb, unable to open glass jars like he used to, unable to drive like he used to, baka hindi na rin makapagluto like he used to—and he'll still have a hold that's unwavering and secure, matibay, and he'll still have hands that hold her like she's breakable.

Jiya lets go of his pinky after hooking it loosely with hers, and travels up to the breadth of his chest, the slow rising and falling of his breathing, and spreads her slightly shaking fingers over the fabric of his shirt. She imagines how it'll feel when his body's turned weak and brittle, when his breathing becomes ragged with old age and the illnesses that come with it—and he'll still have a heart that loves her. Sana.

Normal ba 'to? Ilang months pa lang sila, pero bakit ang—bakit parang ilang taon na, parang hindi bago ang nararamdam niya—parang matagal nang nasa ilalim ng puso niya, matagal nang dormant sa loob-loob niya, na ngayon lang nagpakita?

Hindi na niya namalayan na she has tears in her eyes until one drop falls to his shirt.

Ang saya niyang gumising katabi ni Migo, pero ngayon, nahahaluan na 'yon ng sakit na hindi niya alam kayang iparamdam sa kanya ni Migo.

Migo stirs. Jiya hurriedly wipes her eyes and sits up, hugging her knees, waiting for him to wake up.

He squints against the light. Half-lidded, he rasps, "Morning."

"Hi," Jiya whispers back, giving him a smile.

Migo runs one hand through his face and reaches out with the other for her. She crawls over his legs and wraps her arms around him.

"Kanina ka pa gising?" he mutters sleepily, stroking her back.

"No." Jiya's fingers softly thread into his hair. She breathes in his scent and whispers on the skin of his neck, "I love waking up with you."

Before you—happy. Sad. Everything in between, everything in between the feeling of contentment, everything in between the feeling of pain.

With you—at peace. Home.

She feels his smile on her shoulder, hears it in his voice when he says, "Umagang-umaga, 'wag mong gingaganito puso ko, Valle."

Jiya kisses his pulse point. She feels it jump under her lips, and his hands grip her hips a little too tightly. Smiling, she whispers in his ear, "'Wag kang mag-alala. I'll take care of it."

"Sandali!" Migo almost shouts, laughing, pushing her off, but Jiya clings onto him like a koala, laughing. "Hoy! Namumula na 'ko, tangina mo, lumayo ka sa 'kin!"

"Bakit? Totoo nga!"

"Layo!" Migo slings an arm over her waist to push her on her back, hovering above her. His eyes are bright and his face is glowing and red. Jiya wishes she could take a picture. "Ganito ka ba ka-clingy and ka-cheesy sa mornings, Valle?"