Cunt

julia hao Cunt

“oranges are sweet” The day after my ninth birthday my father told me I was going to get sterilized. It was a simple procedure, he said. They tie little ribbons around the tubes that connect to my ovaries, and it’s done. Easy-peasy, lemon squeezy. Don’t be scared sweetheart, Mommy will hold your hand all the way through, then we’ll get Jollibee after.

This was before the government halted the practice of sterilizing people. No one really remembers this, or at least they don’t talk about it these days, but at that time, it was a law—a law that allowed people to rid themselves of the ability to reproduce and take part in “healing” the overpopulated country. Take charge, the pamphlets would say. Be a woman. Be a man. Get the procedure done today.

It was a law that covered all men and women, especially children, who are born with a healthy reproductive system, with the minimum age being 8 years old for men and any age for women as long as they have started menstruating.

It was a law that was meant to protect the country and to liberate the citizens.

The law also stated that, anyone above 18 already and is of sound mind and body, could proceed with the sterilization without their parents’ consent, or should the parents want the procedure for their child, consent would be needed from the child. Below 18, it is the parents or the guardian who makes the call. The child would get the procedure done, according to their parents, according to the government, according to what was best for them.

My parents, well, they never needed my consent. I was just nine, and I was only beginning to learn about my menstruation. Sex was nonexistent and babies came from birds or were picked up from the side of the road. I hadn’t even had my first crush yet. And yet— my parents decided to get me sterilized, because for some reason,

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seeing nine-year-old me made them think, “if someone were to fuck her, there’s no way she should get pregnant. It’ll be the end of us.” And so, they did the paperwork and got them approved at the nearest municipal office. The government agreed, as they are lawfully required, to cover all the expenses, including my Jolly kiddie meal. The sterilization date was set, and that was the end of me.

“Is it going to hurt?” I asked my mother in the hospital changing room that day.

“No, sweetheart.” She turned me around and began tying the ribbons of my hospital dress. “Having babies hurts more.”

Scenes of a mother giving birth played in my head. I saw it in a commercial on TV once. I had to turn down the volume from 25 to 10 because the mother’s screams were so loud that the insides of my ears vibrated. It was a commercial meant to encourage young women to get sterilized. At the end of it, a woman’s silky voice said, “miracles should be painless—and that’s why I got sterilized. Book yours now. It’s easy. It’s painless. It’s a miracle—”

I turned off the TV in my head and asked my mother:

“Did it hurt when you had me?”

My mother knelt on the alcohol-smelling floor. She had the same face as she would at church whenever the priest would lift the bread and everyone would look up from their pews after confessing their sins like they wanted mercy.

“Aww.” My mother pulled me into an embrace. “Of course, sweetheart.”

My arms weakly hugged her back.

“It hurt like hell when we had you.”

On the operating table, the doctors applied anesthesia on me, but they didn’t put me to sleep. Little curtains were draped over my chest so I couldn’t see how they opened me up and tied my tubes, and so with nothing interesting to stare at, I just closed my eyes and listened to my mother talk to the doctors and nurses in the operating room. I imagined them as puppets moving on my chest, right in front of the little green curtains, as if I were a theater stage. After a while, I started dozing off.

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She’s just a kid, isn’t she, Yes, she is, but my husband decided it was for the best, Mm, I can understand, people just don’t know how to control themselves lately, right, That’s right, doctor, even I’m guilty of that, I had her when I was nineteen, Is that so, the doctor remarked, Well I’m glad it worked out for your family, but ehem, Yes, I see your point, doctor, Having kids in a world like this, selfish, if you ask me, that’s why I had my wife sterilized too, Didn’t she want kids, Not really, there were a lot of options anyway if ever we wanted kids, Oh yes I agree, my husband actually brought that up as well when we were discussing about pushing through with this, That’s good, that’s good, I’m glad you decided to push through with this, besides, your daughter can always adopt or opt for surrogacy, although the latter is a little frowned upon given that the point of all this is to lessen birthing new children, I understand, doctor, She can always just adopt if she wants children, Well we’re going to try our best not to give her that desire, Yes I understand, not all children are blessings, after all.

When I woke up, I was no longer on the operating table. I was neatly tucked in fresh, linen hospital sheets that made my feet colder and my whole body begging for home. The monotonous droning of the near-broken AC filled the room with cold, moist air, making the sheets feel damp to the skin. The room didn’t smell like alcohol or disinfectant spray. It smelled like fried chicken and sweet spaghetti, which came from a few meters away from me where a translucent plastic bag, with Jollibee’s face on it, sat warmly on a small table. Above it was a turned off CRT TV. I wanted to watch some cartoons.

The room was dimly lit. The only light was the one above my bed, singling me out like a spotlight shining on an empty theater stage. Its white fluorescence made my skin pale and ghostly, almost as translucent as the plastic food bag. For a second, I pretended I was dead. Dead and awake, with both eyes opened. The operation failed and I suffered from a heart attack. This was heaven. This was hell. It was the hospital room that I slept in after this choice was made for me.

I don’t remember much about the healing after, just the hours I spent in bed, lying down and watching cartoons.

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In between naps, I found myself telling time with what I would be doing if I were in school. I had been absent for a week, and none of my friends knew why. I didn’t even know what to tell them. I was sure they wouldn’t know what ‘sterilized’ meant, so I asked my mother what I should say if they asked.

“It means you can’t have babies anymore.”

“Forever?”

“Forever.”

“What if I want to have babies?”

“Sweetheart,” my mother tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, traced my jawline, and gently held my chin, “You don’t want to have babies.”

And that was decided for me. It was just like knowing who was allowed to borrow my crayons and my glue. At that time, I’ve never really held a baby or seen one up close. I saw them mostly on TV and in movies, and sometimes in the fetching area at school, but at that point, I didn’t know what it was like to have a baby or to be with one. So there were no second thoughts in that. I didn’t want to have babies because my mother said so.

At school, I told my classmates all about the operation and how I couldn’t have babies anymore. I was the first one to be sterilized among all of us in the class. Some of them had sterilization dates already, though, like Jessa who was set for the summer break and Trisha during Christmas. Does it hurt, they would ask. Everyone wonders if these things hurt, and no, it doesn’t. Not really. No. And yet, it does, when you finally understand.

But it would take years for that truth to grow within me. What I knew as a kid was that I had a gift—a precious, little gift—that my parents gave to me out of the kindness of their hearts because we love you, sweetheart, and we want you to enjoy your life with less burdens.

That’s what I knew. That’s what they told me.

When things got lonely at home, I asked for a sibling. It was just too quiet during the weekends or in the slow afternoons when I would come home early from school.

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The cartoon reruns on TV were getting boring as well, especially that I had no one to watch them with. The stillness of the house would be something so physical, like liquid, that it would feel as if I were swimming through the quietness and the motes of dust floating in the air. The loneliness would be so thick but none of my parents ever had time to cut through it. They would always have work to finish, meals to cook, rooms to clean, and each other to spend time with, as they would say. So I asked for company in the form of a sibling.

Why, sweetheart, I dunno, I’m just bored, I guess, Well, why don’t you invite one of your classmates over, But it’ll be over in a few hours, Then you can hang out again tomorrow, Why don’t we just do something together with daddy, Because we have work, sweetheart, and it’s too tiring to go out as a family, Then let’s go on Sunday, all you do on Sundays is take naps in your room together, Sweetheart, how many times do I have to say it, Why can’t I just have a sibling, Because daddy and I don’t want to take care of another baby, Why not, they’re cute and small and sometimes they poop but they’re fun to—, Because, sweetheart, babies need love and attention and daddy and I can’t give those anymore, Why not, Because we have you already, and you’re already enough, okay, Okay, Don’t be too sad, sweetheart, lots of children are happy being an only child, Okay, You know what, let me call Aya’s mom and ask her if you can stay over for the night so you have someone to hang out with, does that sound good, Mhm, Okay, good, I love you, sweetheart, I love you too, Now let me work.

And so the sleepovers became a regular thing. Once or twice a week I would come over to a friend’s house and spend the night there. Admittedly, I did feel less lonely and bored since it would be fun to talk about our classmates and teachers and to gossip about who liked whom and who cheated on the latest quiz. Homework would barely be done but the night would be less quiet with all the giggling and singing I would be doing with Aya, Pau, or whomever had parents willing enough to take me in for the night.

One night, just before summer break of grade 4, Mariel and I were just beginning to fall asleep when we started to hear repeated, long wails coming from outside of her bedroom window.

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We guessed that it was probably a cat but since both of us have never heard a cat meow that long and that persistently, we decided to investigate. With a keychain flashlight about the size of a fat crayon, we looked for the cat outside her window, no longer feeling sleepy and only feeling determined to find out where the sound was coming from. Then on the mossy balcony of a neighbor’s house, we spotted two cats, one with orange and white fur and another with gray and white, with the gray cat hunched over the orange one who was lying down on its stomach, paws stretched out in front of them. The gray cat kept moving and adjusting its hips towards the orange cat’s rear while the orange cat kept wiggling towards the back and closer to the gray cat. They were taking turns in wailing.

They’re making kittens, Mariel said, Kittens, I asked, Yeah, that’s how cats make their babies, Like that, I asked, Yeah, like that, That’s weird, Not really, What do you mean, Well, that’s how people make babies too, Do they really do it like that, Well, yeah, but not always, Huh, Sometimes, the girl faces the guy and sometimes the girl gets on top of the guy, How do you know, I saw it on TV in my kuya’s room once when I accidentally played the DVD player, What did you see, Naked people, one woman and one man, Did you see their pee-pees, Obviously, they were naked, How do you know they were making babies, Well, the woman kept crying like the cats outside while the man put his thingy inside her and she kept saying come in me and make me pregnant, Is that really how people make babies, I guess so.

Outside, the two cats suddenly pushed each other away and ran off in separate directions. While Mariel and I waited to see if they were coming back, I slid my fingers under the hem of my shorts and panties and stopped near my hip bones. On either side, I felt my scars from the sterilization operation months ago (at that time), caressing them with the tips of my fingers and poking them a little, a habit I began to develop after they had properly healed. They were two small scars. As small as the hole of a five-centavo coin. In a few years, the doctor said, they would either dimple up or be totally gone. It would be like the operation never happened at all and I could confidently wear bikinis when I become a teenager.

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He said I should be thankful that my mother was willing to pay some additional fees that the government didn’t cover so I could get that kind of surgery instead of the other one where they make a bigger scar on my stomach.

“Diba ikaw,” Mariel began as she turned off the flashlight. I guess the cats wouldn’t be coming back anymore. “You can’t have babies anymore, right?”

“Yeah.” I put down my shorts a little to show her my scars by the moonlight. “My parents had me sterilized.”

“Why did they do that?”

I shrugged. “To protect me, they said.”

I expected Mariel to ask me what my parents were protecting me from but instead she told me about how her kuya wanted to get sterilized too.

“He wanted to do it for his girlfriend,” Mariel said as we laid down back on her bed. “We were eating dinner and he told Mama and Papa he was going to get sterilized when he turns 18. When Papa asked him why, Kuya said he didn’t want to get his girlfriend pregnant in the future because she didn’t want kids. Then Papa got all annoyed and started raising his voice at Kuya because he wanted Kuya to have children in the future and it would be embarrassing and shameful for the family if other relatives found out that Kuya couldn’t bear kids.”

“Why would it be embarrassing?”

“I don’t know, but I think Papa said it was the man’s job to bring life into this world. Better the woman than the man, Papa said. It was more embarrassing if a man can’t get a woman pregnant than if a woman can’t get pregnant at all. Kuya started getting annoyed by then. Like really annoyed. Which I think made Papa more annoyed too. Si Mama naman, she kept telling Papa to stop talking because he was hurting Kuya and her feelings, but Papa went on and on about a man’s duties and how a woman should be in a marriage and in starting a family. And then Papa said something so surprising that I couldn’t believe he said that.”

“What did he say?”

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Mariel scooted closer to me on the bed. “He said, ‘ang pukeng walang pakay ay puke pa rin, kaya mas mabuting ‘yang girlpren mo na lang ang magpa-opera kaysa ikaw!’ or something like that. I don’t remember his exact words. Anyway, Mama started crying after that and Kuya left the table. I kept eating but I just couldn’t believe he said ‘puke’!”

I didn’t say anything after, which, I think, Mariel didn’t mind. She kept quiet as well after that. I think we were getting sleepy, too, by that time.

Just before I fell asleep, however, Mariel suddenly spoke again.

“Do you want to have a boyfriend in the future?”

“Yeah, pwede naman.”

“Me too,” Mariel said. “I think it would be easier for you to get a boyfriend though.”

“Why is that?”

“I heard guys like sterilized girls more.”

“Why?”

But no reply came from her side of the bed.

When the baby-bra days started, something shifted in the world around me. It was all attention at first. My mother made time to take me to SM department stores to buy me my first set of baby-bras. You’re a woman now, she said, and it’s a whole different world out there, sweetie, and I’m just glad your daddy and I have less to worry about. Then she placed a youthful hand on my hip and then, with her thumb, she caressed the spot where my scars were. That was counting my blessings. When my scars were touched, I was remembering my gift.

In school, I had my first crush. His name was Oliver. He was a year and two months older than me, and back in grade 3 he used to pull the ends of my hair, absentmindedly, when he was seated behind me. He was our class president in grades 4 and 5, and he always made the Top 10, a few numbers behind me always. He got along with the rowdy boys, but he remained respectable and handsome in my eyes anyway. He could play guitar and read English well. I knew I loved him when I still got butterflies even after he got a barber’s cut for school.

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In grade 6, while in line for the flag ceremony, he accidentally brushed his elbow on my boob. He smirked and said sorry. I blushed and I figured he liked me. After all, no touches are accidental, Pau said. So, for Valentine’s that year, I made him lunch—two pieces of hotdogs from breakfast, fried rice that was beginning to become stale, and a rose-shaped chocolate bar that I bought from an old woman by the school gate—and just like what my mother does for me and my father, I packed it with love inside a Tupperware. I gave it to him in the auditorium at lunch when no one was there, and he hugged me, said thank you with my name, and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

Can I hug you again, he asked, Okay, I said, I like hugging you, I like hugging you too, Thank you again for the lunch, You’re welcome, You’re just so soft when I hug you, like your chest is so soft, Thank you, Can I touch it, Okay, Nice, I’ve never touched a girl’s boobs before, Mm, Thank you for letting me touch them, You’re welcome, Can you, uh, take off your blouse, I wanna feel them some more, if that’s okay, Okay, but what if someone comes in, It’s okay, I’ve locked the doors, Okay, Don’t worry, Okay, Here, let me hold your blouse and help you with your bra, Thank you, Your heart is beating so fast, Oh sorry, No it’s okay, Mmm Oliver, You feel so good, Thank you, Can I put my mouth on it, Mm okay, Nice, Hey Oliver, Yeah, Does this mean you’re my boyfriend now, Yeah sure.

We left the auditorium separately, with him leaving first.

After school, I came home with a sticky, wet feeling between my legs. It’s as if all the butterflies in my stomach had melted, like ice cream, and had dripped down to my crotch. It felt good, the rush of it all. Everyone talks about wanting to be loved, and how it was supposed to complete you, but I’ve never heard anyone talk about wanting to be wanted. And that was exactly how I felt. I was wanted, and it was like a latch had opened deep inside my heart; it twisted and turned, unbolted and unshackled, then finally a click—and it set me free.

In front of the mirror in my own bedroom, I stripped down from my uniform. Oh-so carefully, as if my hands were Oliver’s, I untied the plaid ribbon around my collar and unbuttoned my blouse.

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I unclasped the hook on my skirt and zipped down, exposing myself in front of myself. Standing there, in my baby-bra and pink So-En underwear with printed cartoon flowers, I saw that I still had a child’s body. Nothing like the women in the FHM magazines that the boys in our class secretly brought to school. There was a little embarrassment in that, because how can I ever be wanted with this body? So I took off my baby-bra and underwear. My breasts were starting to look plumper and better shaped, still bigger than the rest of the girls in our class, and my privates were beginning to look more mature. I felt a little more grown seeing myself naked.

On both sides of my hips, my sterilization scars were lightening, but to the touch, they still haven’t flattened. They were like tiny hills on my skin.

With my fingers around my hips and my thumb caressing one scar, I remembered Oliver’s hand gripping my hips as he put his mouth on my nipple earlier that day. The butterflies were melting. Something was unlatching. My hand was lowering and lowering and lowering—

Perhaps that was the freedom my mother kept telling me.

It was true, what Mariel said, by the way. When our boobs fully grew and our hips widened and we finally started high school, the guys really paid more attention to me and the other girls who got the operation done a few years back, when compared to the girls who hadn’t. It was all for sex, of course. I knew that well enough, especially after we began talking about reproductive systems in science class and after me and Mariel started sneaking around in her kuya’s room to watch his porn. We never touched ourselves while watching, at least not when we were together. We mostly watched to learn. You know, the dynamics of it. The art of it. The politics of it. The shame of it. The truth was that guys just love it when they could cum on and in you. It’s territorial. Primal. Let me fill you, baby. Let me own every part of you. More importantly, they just love it more when they know they have what it takes to get you pregnant, to put life in you, if they had the chance. But of course, at the end of the day, they never want the children. They want the idea of it. They only want the power.

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And so they crave my body, my mouth, and my cunt. I was but a vessel of their power. I held and tasted their desire. I had what it takes to be the cool girl who could give you a good time. They wanted me and they got me—and that gave me my power.

Looking back, it was just a longing to be seen. To be looked at. To be recognized. Not just by men, but by anyone, really.

Look at me, look at me, look at me.

So I got the grades, the rank ones and twos, hoping my mother and my father would be proud of me and take me to that celebratory dinner where we could all sit down and eat at the same time.

I bought the makeup and the magazines, and my girlfriends and I took all the Cosmopolitan quizzes to find out which kind of kisser we are and which sex position fit our personality the best, then we all taught each other how to sway our hips and flip our hair the right way to get all the boys’ attention.

That’s what existing felt. When boys or men stared at me, I existed. When they wanted me, I existed. When they fucked me, I existed. I love you, they would say. And their love tasted like skin, saliva, and cum. Love was teeth and tongue and how they grazed me all over like I’m a ripened fruit. That was my existence. Other than that, I was nothing but a piece of pussy waiting to put on that sundress again for the summer or the weekend, the one that I secretly bought off at Avon from a neighbor because I loved its creamy white shade and the small printed roses on it and how the straps were self-tied, because I knew—and I imagined it in my head—that when men see me in that dress, they’ll be untying those ribbons and kissing the slope of my neck to my shoulders in their minds. I see everything in their eyes. The desire. The hunger.

It's an opportunity to exist, to be looked at, to be seen—so when the boys and the men come, if I could, I would tilt my head down, not too much but just enough to give me that air of shyness, and then I would hold their gaze and find existence. I am doe-eyed and innocent, with cum-white skin and blowjob-red lips. And then at night, in my own bed, a friend’s, or a lover’s, I would feel like a god, in a way that I was finally believed in.

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Then in the middle of all this, the sterilizations stopped.

It was around third-year high school—long after Oliver and I broke up, long after some summer flings—and I was at Mike’s place. His senile lola owned the house, and it certainly smelled that way from what I remember, like dried fruits and old bamboo, and his lola liked blasting the TV at full volume. The newscasters and the commercial narrators’ voices pounded at my eardrums, but the loudness always helped hide the sound of kissing and sucking.

Mike and I were making out on an old, latticed chair, with his hands already exploring underneath my uniform when I heard the news.

Wait, stop, stop, What’s wrong, Let me listen to this for a minute, Nagmomomol tayo and then you’re going to listen to the news, Yes, now shush, gimme a minute, I wanna hear this, Okay sure, Fuck, What, They really repealed it, They what, The government is stopping the sterilizations, What does that mean, I guess they’re no longer allowing children to get sterilized and they’re no longer funding the adults who want to, Ahhh, okay, why, Aren’t you listening, It’s sexier when you explain it, Fine, okay, So why are they stopping, I don’t know really, I think it’s because of all the protests all these years, Ah, yeah I see those protests on the papers time to time, Yeah, and I guess it’s also because we’re no longer overpopulated, Makes sense, now, can we make out again, I can’t believe the sterilizations are actually stopping, Mmm, is it because you got sterilized, No, no, no, I don’t know, I think it’s just—ahh, Mike—I, uh, thought this was gonna be a part of our lives forever, Okay okay, well, aren’t you glad you’re sterilized, Yeah, I’m happy—don’t leave a hickey there, Mmm, that means you can’t get pregnant, right, Mm yes, Even if I shoot it in you, you won’t get pregnant, right, Mmm no—ahh, Good, because that’s exactly what I wanna do to your tight little cunt right now.

Fifteen minutes later, foreplay included, I was already wiping off the semen on my chest and stomach while me and Mike laid on his bed. My mouth tasted like skin after all the kissing and dick- and finger-sucking. Mike’s cum was already trickling out of me slowly, and I wanted to go to the bathroom to wash it off quickly, but Mike had his

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sweaty arm over my stomach. His hand, which was just playing with a nipple, slowly moved down to my hips to thumb at my scar.

“Did it hurt?”

“When I fell from heaven? No. When I had sex for the first time? A little—”

“Ha-ha,” Mike said, sarcastically. “I meant when you got this.”

“I don’t remember. I was asleep when it all happened.”

Mike nodded and continued drawing circles around the scar. I was getting a little impatient and uncomfortable. The stickiness of it all made me cringe a little, so I finally got up and swung my legs over the bed, my back turned at him.

“Do you ever think about wanting kids in the future?” Mike asked

Standing up, I could feel the semen gush out a little bit faster. It was a good feeling, though, having them orgasm inside of me. Other girls in my place would be coming home right now, praying to God they won’t get pregnant. Well, I had my freedom, my ways of existing. I could hold my belly knowing it’ll never hold a kid inside it. My body can never take a sperm and let an egg cell meet it. They’ll never make that “miracle of life,” and my body will never be a testimony of it. It will never be in pain because it will never give birth. My skin will always be young and unmarked, as my mother says, and my breasts will always be perfect, plump, and balanced. My nipples will always be flat for they will never nurse and nourish a baby that I could call mine. These will never happen for me, and that was my gift, my blessing, and my freedom. I will never know my children and they will never know me.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think about them at all.”

Before I knew it, high school was over. It went by like a gentle wind sliding against your skin on a hot summer day, so slow and yet so fast, like when you’re trying to recall how it just felt. It was like the emptiness I’d feel whenever I’d come home after staying over at a boyfriend’s place and I’d be in my own bed; it would be a relief that I could finally lie down somewhere where the outline on the mattress is familiar, but I’d find myself going back to the night before when, right after all the foreplay and the sex and the round twos, I would be

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in another’s bed with their head on my chest and their arm around my waist. We would smell like each other for the time being, and I would hold them like how I wish my mother held me during thunderstorms, with my own arm around their head and my hand gently tousling their hair. In those moments, time would melt so slowly, like candle wax. And then the night passed and I come home to my parents’ house. They never asked where I’d been, only if I had fun. I would nod and go to my room and think about how that’s all over now and I’ll be waiting again for another chance to leave the silence of our house. The candle wax has hardened and I’m all alone again.

That was high school. It had its fun—like when Pau’s ex-boyfriend, the captain of the school’s basketball team, took me to prom, and, after we had won the Prom King & Queen title together, took me skinny dipping in their private village, in his three-story house with a pool, and finally took me to bed—and then it had its morning afters, like when Pau poured all her Coleman’s contents on me the day after the prom and after finding out I slept with Danny during their “cool-off” period.

I never slept over at her place again, nor at Danny’s. She never spoke to me again, not even at graduation, and I never spoke to her as well, although I badly wanted to tell her that I’m sorry and that I missed her. Anyway, she and Danny got back together a month after the Coleman incident. It was also the day we took college entrance exams in school.

Months later, I got accepted into UPD and ADMU, the only universities I applied to, and my parents were as proud as any parent who only ever looked at your report card and never your birthday cards for them. Well done, sweetheart, they said, we’ll help you look for a place of your own soon, para hindi ka uwian when college starts. My parents loved giving me freedom. It was their love language to let me do whatever I wanted. That was their gift to me. That was my blessing, as they told me. And so it was. So I wanted it to be.

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Summer was hot and silent, like a cathedral in the middle of a weekday afternoon, and so it felt solemn to me as well. I didn’t have the energy to leave the house nor go out with friends. Maybe it was penance, my way of repenting from what I had done to Pau when I couldn’t say my apology.

Whatever it was, I found an interesting way to pass the time. I began rereading my science textbooks, flipping to the reproductive systems section, and refreshing my memory about pregnancy and motherhood. I looked at anatomical photos of a pregnant woman’s belly and tried to imagine what it was like to have all my abdominal organs pushing at each other because a baby was taking up the space below. I looked at fetal growth charts and found it intriguing how such a small clump of cells could bear my own face despite its size. And I understood it a little, why they say it’s a miracle to carry a child in your belly. I believe it’s like learning to love. To truly and selflessly love.

Perhaps it’s like how my mother tried to tell me she loved me by bringing me an orange in my room. The orange was unpeeled, plump, and unbruised. It was on a saucer that she loved so much; I know that because she always uses it for her morning coffee and afternoon biscuits. The orange rolled around the saucer as my mother walked in. Then she placed it on my study table and sat on my desk chair, all while she told me that the orange was a gift from a colleague who owned a fruit farm in the province. I was on my bed listening to a mixtape an ex gave.

“Alam mo,” my mother began.

I took off my headphones and sat up, crossing my legs.

“Dito kita ipinaglihi.”

“On an orange?”

She nodded with a small smile on her face. Beads of sweat rested on the skin on top of her upper lip.

“I must’ve eaten at least thirty of these when I was pregnant with you. I was just always craving for oranges, just thinking about its tanginess and sweetness, and wanting to put a little salt on it. I would beg your father to go to the palengke after his last class to buy a whole

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kilo of oranges for me. And then when he comes home to our small, small apartment back then, he would peel them from me.”

“That’s nice” was all I could say. It had been a while since she talked to me this long.

“Your Lola Rita would always say you’d be born with a very round face and big pores, just like an orange. I didn’t believe any of it, of course. You know me, I don’t believe in stuff like those. And then you came! And oh, sweetheart, your face was so, so round and so red.”

I gave an acknowledging giggle.

The room was gummy with the heat, as if I lived inside a microwave that was just used. It also felt full. Full of heat and molecules and awkwardness. Perhaps it was my mother’s presence, but I suddenly felt aware of my ears. It was probably just the humidity.

“And now, you’re all grown.” She stared at me like she was adoring me, smiling with her eyebrows lifted in nostalgia. “‘Di na rin bilugan mukha mo. And you’re going off to college in a few months.”

I nodded shyly, not really knowing what to say, and looked down at my crossed legs.

My mother, then, took the orange. She pierced the top with her nails, breaking the skin. She peeled, like she had done this a hundred times, pulling the skin of the orange continuously with her thumb and the base of her forefinger.

“I…” my mother began. Her eyes quickly looked down and moved side to side, like she had forgotten what to say and was reading a script from the floor. “I’m really happy you get to enjoy your youth with less anxieties. Aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Me too, sweetheart.”

When the orange was bare, she began picking at the white piths with her nails, plucking them into long spongy strings and then piling them with the orange peels. This took a while, or at least it felt it did, but I couldn’t bear to interrupt her. The way she cleaned the orange of its piths was careful and almost loving. She didn’t just pick at a pith and pulled, no, she made sure she was picking at the thickest end of a pith before pulling so carefully. I watched the skin of her finger barely

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turn white with pressure. Her knuckles were barely articulated with the gentleness of her pulling. Then when she was satisfied, she placed the smoothened orange, perfect and naked, back on her beloved saucer. “Eat up, sweetheart,” my mother said as she stood up from my desk chair. “The oranges are sweet.”

After she had left my room, I took the orange into my hands, inspecting its bareness. It looked so beautiful and pure, like a freshly birthed planet. On the pads of my thumbs, the orange felt firm and juicy.

Then I took a slice, separating it from its family, and I held it with my fingers. It looked just like an eight-week-old fetus with seeds for a heart.

I began to eat the orange, slice per slice. I ate it all in one sitting, taking my time, just like my mother did when she picked at the piths, and feeling each moment my teeth penetrated the thin film covering the orange’s pulpy flesh. Despite what my mother said about the orange being sweet, I had gotten a sour one. I didn’t mind, not after everything she did to peel it so perfectly. Then I spat out the seeds— the hearts—with my tongue and my lips onto her beloved saucer where the rest of the orange’s carcass was piled.

By the last slice, I took a good look at it once again and still saw the same thing. An eight-week-old fetus. I put it in my mouth and began chewing.

I started to cry.

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