pangarap cong maging pintor

Painter’s Room

A four-post bed here, a 1986 stereo there,
This room will stay the same, father says.

The smell of oil paints and egg yolk will also remain,
It goes the same for the patches of colors on the floor.

His brushes and palettes will need not to be burned.
His paintings will all go to the family heirloom.

With hair in burnt-brown curls and eyes askew,
That portrait alone will hang on the wall.

His smile, together with his shoes and plastic fruits, will
Forever echo a sigh: silent, unmoving and still.

Tonight, mother will secretly gather the photos from its frames
And will read the unsent letters hidden inside pillowcases.

She will empty the glass jars filled with murky waters
And will bleach unused canvasses white for keepsake.

Can I have his guitar and CD collections, Papa?
No, father says, everything will stay the same.

This room will be untouched, un-trespassed.
This room will stay the same, father says.

Except for the heap of laundry on corner unwashed
And your brother that still hangs alone by the door.