“They have a doctor here, somewhere, standing by,” Ben says as he repeats the trick I just taught him, performing it perfectly, “never saw her until this morning. And she was all goggle-eyed when I told her who I was. Apparently, I’m somebody famous.”
“And that’s why I’m writing a book about you. About your life,” I told him.
“About my life, eh? What do you know about it?” Ben asks, giving me my share of cards so we can play.
“A lot. Probably more than you do.”
“Wouldn’t doubt that, my boy,” he arranges the cards in his hands, “couldn’t even remember the last time I went to the bathroom, but the nurse does. Maybe you should interview her too.”
“Already did that,” I smiled, “gave me a copy of your bathroom schedule.”
“She did?” he chuckled.
“No, not really,” I lay down my cards, “and I win.”
“Lucky lad,” he chuckles, “I’ve been thinking about something.”
“What is it?” I ask, I shuffled the cards this time.
“Can I ask you a favor?” Ben’s eyes were a little wistful.
“Sure, anything.”
“Do you know the house where I grew up?”
“No, I’m sorry,” I frown.
Ben took out a pen and a piece of paper, and started writing something. “Here,” he said, “this is the place.”
BINABASA MO ANG
A Day in 1953
Short StoryEveryday with Ben is different yet very familiar at the same time. On some days, I'd remind Ben that we're related. On some days, we play cards. On some days, we talk about dogs. Everyday, he tells me I look like Maura Fischer--his first and last tr...
