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Timi Stoop-Alcala

I drink your milkshake

“Lagalag.” Wanderer in my native tongue, its seed kept safe in the hollows of my womb since I was a child. Nourished by stories of night and conjurings by day that brightened like a flame awash in the noontime sun. They pulled my soul like the moon’s silver on the waves. The more stories I ate, the more I was famished. The more I hungered, the more the restlessness in my womb grew. And so amidst the turbulence of my 16th year, I birthed “Ligalig.” Disquiet.

They were twins, he said. Lagalag marked the first step away from home, made me search, left me lost. Ligalig brought me to them—my yearning to trace its birthright, my confusion to quell it or revel in its danger. And it was the workings of both that shifted my road to meet his sea.

For I would like it
that when I die,
and people will say,
“She was not really the writer
she claimed, or
she could never stay long
in a job;
she was always the dreamer
and her dreams
were too bright, and
she was forever wandering,
and often afraid,
shifting roads, shifting seas,”
They will pause
and furrow their brows,
as if feeling for the pea
in the folds of their memories.
And in the still light of moments
a faint smile will spread
on their face as they say:

Ay, but how she loved!

And how she loved us.

 
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