2 Short Stories

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I visited my grandmother last Sunday afternoon. I was not at all prepared to deal with what I saw. After so many skin tests, allergy tests, antibiotics, bed sores, injections, intravenous supplements, a stoma (when they punch a hole on your stomach and attach a food tube to it), and on that day I visited, a rectal exam, my grandmother was not herself anymore. She had become this traumatized shell of the loving matriarch that she once was. I could never forget the look on her face that afternoon, the way her eyes blankly stared into impossible salvation, the way she moaned in sheer horror like a tortured victim of physical abuse. I couldn't even touch her because any slight movement triggered her fear like clockwork.
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She isn't my grandmother anymore. My relatives were cleaning up her naked body. I sat near the foot of her bed, grabbed a pillow ...
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... and wept.
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I met up with Meal on a Monday night. I felt I needed to take a final serving and clarify where this can all lead to. We ate at Cafe Bola for dinner and started the conversation right away. Like the last time, we both weren't able to finish our meal. I always knew Meal would be staying in Cebu for the next 4 months. So many stories, too many questions, a lot left unanswered. I was tried to mince through the peculiar flavor in my tomato penne. It was a delicious serving, yet somehow, I had this recurring feeling. I felt that it wouldn't be the last I'll be mincing through aniseed in my meals.
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We paid the bill then left . I walked Meal toward the bus stop, then I went toward mine on an opposite street. I wore my glasses the entire time.
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