Test My Tether

Hair is gray, and the fires are burning.
So many dreams on the shelf.
He said, "I wanted you to be proud of me."
I always wanted that myself.
- Tori Amos

The days moved as if through sludge in those months I spent in Davao, a second Leave of Absence hefted upon my school record and time rolling out in front of me like some infinite, blank scroll waiting to be written on. The afternoons were laziest of all. The sunlight would come cascading to the backyard until everything seemed to be covered in molten gold, and the dogs, Coco and Nugget, would either be loping around in a half-drunken fashion or napping by the back door until sundown.

Sometimes I'd play with them, the three of us racing around the perimeter of the house. The game often started in the backyard; I would stand around innocently while they sniffed the air, suspecting something, and then I'd break into a sprint, the both of them catching up and yapping wildly, their forms like little whirlwinds tossing around my legs. They were mad about that game, those dogs. We usually ended it at the backyard, at that area with the bermuda grass spread out over it, and I would lie down while Coco and Nugget panted noisily nearby. I lay down even if the grass felt itchy through my shirt, even if there was dog shit some yards away stinking up the air.

Other than that, there wasn't much to do except curl up in bed, on the living room sofa, on the floor, anywhere – curl up with a book or with the television and its relentless stream of entertainment and information. A cartoon here, a sitcom there, and then a documentary featuring leopards. I loved leopards the best. I would watch leopard documentaries for hours; I loved the way they arched their backs right before springing up to a tree branch overhead. I loved their massive, feral bodies, all sinew and spotted pelt, the way they carved out stubborn, solitary lives.

Mom had scores of recipe books stacked in various areas in the house, and I thumbed through each of them until the urge to whip up something would overrun me and I would heave out the giant Kitchen Aid mixer and all the bowls and spatulas, I would take out the tubs of flour and brown sugar from the shelves and leave the sticks of butter softening on a white saucer.

I made Choc-Oat Chip cookies to die for. I made them so that handfuls of chocolate chips were folded generously into the batter, the walnuts chopped coarsely so there were huge chunks of it in every dollop of cookie dough. I made the cookies large and soft and buttery. I made them so that they surrendered to your mouth.

Dad would come home and find a tray of the cookies cooling on a rack, and he would take one and chew on it thoughtfully, nodding his head. "That was the best cookie I have ever tasted," he'd pronounce grandly. I would grin at him whenever he said this, because he said this of every single cookie I made. He and I would go grocery shopping for more ingredients, bags of Toll House chocolate chips and large cans of Diamond walnuts and small sacks of flour. "You have to make more, four more dozens, maybe," he'd say, pushing the shopping cart purposefully.

We would run into his friends in the grocery, and he would brag to them about the cookies while I stood fidgeting in quiet mortification. "She makes very good cookies. We're buying ingredients, in fact. You should order a dozen from her." And they would, they would order a dozen until I had orders piled up high to the ceiling. These people usually started out asking for a single dozen – later, they'd call up the house and ask for four dozens. Sometimes six. It was crazy.

At night, I would go out from my bedroom to get a glass of water and catch Dad sneaking out a cookie from the container, crumbs of an already-eaten cookie flecked on his chin. "I like to munch on them while I'm watching TV," he'd say quickly. The television wasn't even turned on.

I would kiss him on the cheek and go back to bed and read some more before turning in for the night. The crickets sang loudest outside my room, so much music coaxed out from a pair of wings and friction. I haven't yet found a better lullaby.
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