A Minute of Memory

A Minute of Memory

One school morning, three green-clad scouts assembled in triangular formation at the foot of the pole. Carrying a multi-colored cloth, they clipped the fabric to the twine connected to a towering post. Music emerged in the background as one of the musketeers played mannequin, leaving the other two pulling and clinging to the rope. A choir of two thousand members gathered before the platform following the signals of the conductor, standing on a pedestal, one foot taller than the rest of the population. I looked again at the well-postured girls, as they stood still, and noticed their tight-lipped mouths as everyone else’s voices filled the vicinity.

I pulled my head back slightly to get a glimpse of the treasured cloth. The mistaken title that appears at the opening line of the song vibrated through my throat. It seemed to be reciting my name over and over again. I usually do not make an effort of pulling my head back. Several times, I was one of the musketeers, the vertex of the formed pattern at the pedestal, part of the ones who silently make the flag visible to the entire student body. A blast of air breezed through the banner, and its whiff found its way back to where I was standing several meters away. I was always the one carrying the colors, dutifully keeping it from touching the ground. It had the smell of a fabric section in the department store, where my mom and I would usually pick curtains that corresponded to a particular season of the year.

The song’s real title played as the gust of wind grew stronger, balding the Talisay tree beside me. The leaves fell like heavy-pouring rain as the others docked their heads to avoid the smell of decayed leaves sticking on their uniforms. The shuddering shoulders of the ones in front of me signaled the fast-paced tempo of the next lines of the song. Then, I relied on lip synching when the pitch began to escalate, reminding me of the unpleasant trace of morning breath.

When the ground...