Alive

A building on the corner of Otek 
and Chanum streets used to be 
a Kempetai headquarters, during 
the Japanese occupation. In the '50s, 
it was converted into the Bayanihan 
Hotel, though some of its dark history
lingered in wooden panels and broody 
green paint, like the interior of a forest. 
I was very young when my father picked up 
his niece and her fiance from the bus 
station, and helped them get a room there; 
they had just eloped. This word, explained 
in terms of marriage, choice, and going 
against others' wishes. My father seemed 
pleased that he could help, which told me
what side he was on. Or perhaps, it was
the only way to save face, if a child
was already on the way. We were taught
that history is what has happened— over
and done. The past, a bed you can't  abandon. 
But I've come to learn the past survives in many 
ways, finds new forms to inhabit. Silence carries 
the things we've inherited, then one day tips them out
like diesel leaking from the gas station on the corner. 
Something remains alert inside spaces we thought 
were vacant. Then light climbs the staircases at night,
touches the drapes as though reconsidering a decision.