THE LAME SATTIRE
By: Iris P. Concepcion

I found somewhere in a rattan chair a letter written by a mother, long drawn out to perfection for her daughter. I saw this in a makeshift seaside by those who were caught yachting and cried: "Look we are truly the best option because we are clean." Enough of the tirades.

This is the gist of such missive:

"Dear daughter,

Had I not known the temperance and magnitude of your written confessions, I could get lost in the false, lame spins of people. It is not irksome; it is pathetic. They look like they just woke up from the cemetery to protect their gonads from shrinking. They must be so stressed out in their boiler rooms.

I know your skeletal framework; every nook and cranny of your life; your indiscretions and laments. You were aped by these plastic people and I laughed; I wish to throw them your real columns but how to argue with tailenders who are already spinning out of their own radars?

Ophelia said it correctly. You are tired of your good life; you will never come for Mayon for what will it serve but revert to the waste of the past? It is redundant. They ape miserably and they are gritting their teeth for still being pulled down by decency.

Need I really go to Palawan and swim in their own fortresses? Shall I bring them their attendance cards; them whose idea of office is giving their manicured feet pampering while houses still need to get built? Oh, how they parade their mistresses using their benefactors' loot! while you, daughter, was busy writing your own debacles, out in the public, transparent as your lingerie. You could not hide your imperfections; you divulge them. That is the link that binds you with your siblings.

Remember the day you went to Church with the youngest; he who had found a way to magnetize his ears when the chorale went off bounds? Their lame proxies could never spot why the thread is strong and why you are still on top, along with the quilt.

I have seen your pairings. You stood behind people. And had sneaked things in between in silent explanation. I know your every scar, the false crease on your face.

I saw you and the youngest trailing your Mom in a mall (both your hands clasped) amid some senseless shouts. You two always looked dorky.

Your older sister even cocooned the flower in one of the metropolis' eatery filled with slackers. Had I not fed you with my own milk, I might be lost too. But sadly, I am not.

I have never heard you deconstruct anyone to forward yourself. You are hit the hardest because you know the most. Just keep the thought: I believe you. Oh, the bastions of confusions they sow for me to distrust you. But the soil had been planted; I had sired you from the beginning.

I have heard and listened to the kids you had produced creatively (which them bitters likewise wanted to discredit). But I have interacted with them; these kids had greatly transformed; I saw who handled them. I am dumbfounded as to the source of intelligence this time around.

Hey, your retard brother must be doing something right to have brought out the wonderful demeanors in them.

You are loved.

By the way, I really know the youngest. Like you, he had been cloned but I know him. Life is Huge, according to my picture of him. His circle always remembers my stories. I know it when he is mad, it is always out in the open; it is not a put-on. He shares his upsized cups of sodas with the girls and when I asked the shared one why, she said: "It is cheaper!" He does simple things like cajoling your mother once to join Singles for Christ as a prank.

Thank you kids for giving your mother a kiss everytime she gets out from a frenzied rant. It always gets her goat. I know your real voices; you, daughter, sound like a Chipmunk when truly excited.

Even your good deeds are being shredded. But then; what have they shown for themselves? Barren fields? They could not even manufacture genuine fun.

Remember, the youngest always manages to utter "I DID THAT" when he is wrong but he never says "I DID THAT" when he does something right.

Where is your spot now daughter? That is a comfortable place. Give my hugs to your crazy brother; a pinch off the old block. His eyes kind of twinkle like his mother , don't you think?

Always,

Mother