FOURTEEN
Breakfast was tusilog—tuyo, sinangag, at itlog—three-in-one coffee, and fruit from their trip to the market yesterday. Simple, yet scrumptious. Although, honestly, Datu knew it was more about who he was having breakfast with than the actual dishes on the table.
“Na-miss ko ‘to,” he announced, pinching flesh off the salted fish. He let it sit in the platito of Kalila’s vinegar, garlic, and chili concoction for a few seconds before putting the vinegared flakes on top of his garlic fried rice and eating an entire mouthful in one go. The blend of flavors brought back memories of Baguio City mornings, where the air was chilly and the breeze smelled of fresh pine. He was about twelve when his mother took him and his brothers Isagani and Pio there, a sudden trip he’d thrown a tantrum a
