I dipped my finger into the night and slowly drew the mountains that smelled of ripened labig. I drew the waig that separated the village and its many huts that were bled cobbled together from discarded timbers, from the modest apartments. I drew the clouds that rolled above Lakay-lakay as he kept watch over the calm sea, the rocks of Fuga and Camiguin that were visible to the eye when the tide was low. Near the shore where the small waves break and erase everything that is etched in the sand, I drew the people whose faces I would always remember, and the people whose names I would never forget. I drew until my finger was as black as the night. Read Less