Bittersweet

A farmer grew rice and raised chickens on a tiny apron 
of land in Bacnotan. His house had walls of woven reed; 
a carabao tied to a post in the yard hardly blinked at flies, 
drawn to the smell of dung. Young and newly hopeful, 
before the farm, right after the last of the old wars 
when planes dropped large, explosive husks out of 
the sky, he came to the city to find work. When he 
was given an apron and told to start in a hotel kitchen 
did he sing as he chopped onions, eggplant and bitter 
gourd for stew in large vats? He was not the one to ladle 
them onto the plates of those who ate. He did not hear 
if they spat the bitterness into a napkin, or marveled at 
the undertone of recent misfortune in each bite. 
My mother was this farmer's daughter. She taught me 
how to salt bittermelon slices and let them sit; then 
wash them under cold running water until even 
the taste of difficulty felt hard-worn, clean.