My Mother's Pastillas

My mother’s love
took the form of pastillas,
Sugar sprinkled,
diabetic milk pastries,
rich and delectable
as she was
sweet and unforgettable .

As a child, I suckled
from my mother’s breasts
milk rich with vitamins
called love.
Now, all I have is pastillas,
soft like her voice
when she speaks my name,
sings lullabies.
Dairy comfort food.
Comfort:
from the word describing
siestas on her lap.

My brain is a box of dozens.
All wrapped in white paper,
bitter and inedible
as the day when life
consumed her.
I crumple and discard
the paper that keeps
my mother’s love
under wraps.

Copyright ©2006 Ronnie C. Cabañes

My Father's Adobo

The wok was his canvas.
He cooked up a masterpiece,
just one in many that he did so well.

Slow and steady fire, never overbearing
Patience was his virtue.

Peppercorns aplenty
garlic cloves and bay leaf.
Coconut cream
simmered in subtle rage
and soon gave way
to porkloin juice.
The stirring and turning
magically transformed
a sea of fluid white to thick
fragrant oil
which flowed through our veins
and won over our hearts.
(No surprise,
my father died of a heart attack!)

With Bicolano flair, he added labuyo chili,
a strong finish to an otherwise simple dish.
Potent kick that woke up the senses.
Something more to remember him by.
Life’s lessons passed on in code
in the form of recipes.

The scent of my father’s adobo
still lingers through the house.
His spirit lives.

Copyright ©2006 Ronnie C. Cabañes