Each Withered FlowerThe sun had begun to lean westward and the air was gradually getting chilly. The vast field was an expectant mother eagerly awaiting the birth of her child. The rice grains were swollen, although here and there were seedlings thrust into the soil early in the season in anticipation of a possible lean harvest.
Tata Teban sat by the window, quietly mending his old small fishing net with stitches. Nana Tasyang, who had wanted to take a nap after having lunch because she had not slept well the previous night, was sprawled on the bamboo floor, and like her husband, was busy reweaving their mat.
Nana Tasyang lifted her eyes. “Oy, it’s been a while since your son has written to us.”
The man said nothing. He blew smoke through his pipe to signify that he heard the woman.
“A
