Out of the blue my sister calls, and as always, she has perfect timing: I am nowhere near the phone.
The message she leaves is a Mobius strip. “I see you’re not in, I tried to call home but I lost all your numbers, I just have this one. Anyway, I’ll call again.”
A twist of the same sentence, but not a variation on a constant theme. She won’t be rushing to call again, I know. I’m betting that months, or the better part of a year will go by before she does. If not for the rush of blood to my head at the sound of her voice, I would not recognize who is it at the end of a humming phone, speaking stunted ilonggo, clipping her a’s like the true foreigner she has become.
Perhaps, over the years, all those harsh winters in that faraway expanse of continent have thinned the blood and diluted memory, so that letting go is just easier than holding on.
“I lost all your numbers.”