Going Home

#185: Bye Manila

My brother and his girlfriend drive us to the old icky airport. On our way there, the muted colors of slums and sari-sari stores bid us - bid me farewell. It was all laughter until I embraced my dad to say goodbye. Why do goodbyes always sting? My mom tells me to be a good girl. Our maids try to hide the sadness of it all behind dishwashing suds and mocking voices: "Go. Leave. So we don't have to clean up after you anymore." The airport looms and I think, I'm going home. No. I'm leaving home.