A Woman's Place is the House and the Senate

The Taste of Home [Pia Cayetano/Loren Legarda]

One late afternoon she comes home after yet another meeting overseeing the national budget. The bags under her eyes got noticeably darker, and her hair disheveled and in dire need of a trim.

Then she drags her feet inside, slams her bag on the coffee table with a resounding thud and plops herself on the couch right beside me.

Didn't even bother asking if she's okay. Not if I want to sleep on the bed beside her tonight.

My heart aches seeing her like this. She who wakes before the sun is up chipper as a bird with the copious amounts of energy eager to start her day and goes on into the night. It's like she never tires out or has even a strand of hair out of place.

I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her closer to me. She burrows her head on the crook of my neck while I draw circles and figure eights on her hand. 

Just how she always loved it. 

I snap out of the trance I got myself when an uncharacteristically quiet voice calls my name. "Pia?"

"Yes, Love?" I reply.

Her usually tense face relaxed in to the softest smile I've seen on her. "Wala. I just love hearing you call me that." 

She looks at me with this childlike curiosity only emphasized by her expressive eyes and round face that reminds me so much of the glow of a full moon. 

Then I gaze at her soft lips and find them inviting me to kiss her so gently she would melt into me. 

And then I did. Just like I did many times before. 

No amount of poetry could describe how she tastes. 

All I could say is that she tastes like home.