THE NARRA TREE

We were Batch 89-B, saplings like the narra tree.

The narra tree that accepted us after the final initiation.

An initiation that relegated the 7th edition of the AWG to a welcome slap to the face and a paddle upon the posterior thigh where purple theories of change popped out.

Changes that drew carnage from my palms and cultivated bruises in my back as the ASEAN was spoken to about JET and civic space.  

Spaces, like a 2-minute station for catching up on SP that was rewarded with a royalty of $1,650 as full payment (October) for elevating the I-JET project. 

Projects that are the equivalent of a mental torture prompting refreshers on the code of conduct for an Indian Run and a GDPR package.  

A package that smelled of Samar burning from 5 biking raids to the dilapidated park and a barrage of pledges for a catered lunch codenamed Oplan SSS for me and her. 

Her unemployed, my stale peanuts, reheated paksiw na bangus, tinned corned beef, a birthday party for the dead, and deep fried lapu-lapu  within the vicinity of Bakal 2. 

It's been 46 years and the Narra tree has matured.

Matured and dead but not the old friends I met again after 5, 10, 15, 20, 25 or even 30 years.

Years of absence that were crooned by a fat pussy singing into half-empty brandy bottles amidst the crunch of danggit from Lubang Island, the sweetness of patupat from Pozzorubio, and the acidity of kinilaw na bangus from Manaoag...