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Letter to Pedro, U.S Citizen, Also Called Pete by Rene Estrella Amper
Letter to Pedro, U.S Citizen, Also Called Pete by Rene Estrella Amper
Pete, old friend, there isnāt really much change in our hometown since you left. This morning I couldnāt find anymore the grave of Simeona, the cat we buried at the foot of Miguelās mango tree, when we were grade four, after she was hit by a truck while crossing the street. The bulldozer has messed it up while making the feeder road into the mountains to reach the hearts of the farmers.
The farmers come down every Sunday to sell their agony and their sweat for a few pesos, lose in the cockpit or get drunk on the way home. A steel bridge named after the congressmanās wife now spans the gray river where Tasyo, the old goat, had split the skin of our young lizards to make us a man years ago. The long blue hills where we use to shoot birds with slingshot or spend the summer afternoons we loved so much doing nothing in the tall grass have been bought by the mayorās son. Now thereās barbed wire fence about them, the birds have gone away. The mayor owns a big sugar plantation, three new cars, and a mansion with the gate overhung with sampaguita. Inside the gate are guys who carry a rifle and a pistol. We still go to Kongaās store for rice, and sardines and sugar and nails for the coffin. Still only a handful go to Mass on Sundays. In the church the men talk, sleep, the children play. The priest is sad. Last night the storm came and blew away the cornflowers. The cornfield are full of cries. Your cousin, Julia has just become a whore. She liked good clothes, good food, big money.
Thatās why she became a whore. Now our hometown has seven whores. Peter old friend, every time we have good reason to get drunk and be carried home in a wheelbarrow, we always remember you. Oh we miss both Pete and Pedro. Remember us to your American wife, your lucky bastard, Islaw, your cock-eyed uncle, now calls himself Stanley after he began wearing clothes you sent him last Christmas. P.S. Tasyo, the old goat, sends your lizard his warmest congratulations.
Pete, old friend, there isn't really much change in our hometown since you left. This morning I couldn't find the grave of Simeona, the cat we buried at the base of Miguel's mango tree, when we were in fourth grade, after she was hit by a truck while crossing the street. The bulldozer has destroyed it while making the small road into the mountains to reach the farmers.
The farmers come down every Sunday to sell their hard work and sweat for a few pesos lose in the cockfighting arena or get drunk on the way home. A steel bridge named after the congressman's wife now crosses the gray river where Tasyo, the old goat, had cut the skin of our young lizards to make us men years ago. The long blue hills where we used to shoot birds with slingshots or spend the summer afternoons we loved so much doing nothing in the tall grass have been bought by the mayor's son. Now there's a barbed wire fence around them, the birds have gone away. The mayor owns a big sugar plantation, three new cars, and a mansion with the gate covered with sampaguita flowers. Inside the gate are men who carry a rifle and a pistol. We still go to Konga's store for rice, and sardines and sugar and nails for the coffin. Still only a few go to church on Sundays. In the church the men talk, sleep, the children play. The priest is sad. Last night the storm came and blew away the cornflowers. The cornfield is full of cries. Your cousin, Julia has just become a prostitute.
She liked nice clothes, good food, big money. That's why she became a prostitute. Now our hometown has seven prostitutes. Peter old friend, every time we have a good reason to get drunk and be carried home in a wheelbarrow, we always remember you. Oh we miss both Pete and Pedro. Remember us to your American wife, you lucky guy, Islaw, your cross-eyed uncle, now calls himself Stanley after he began wearing clothes you sent him last Christmas. P.S. Tasyo, the old goat,