by Michellan Sarile-Alagao

Image by Brendo Boyose on Pexels. (All photos and videos on Pexels can be downloaded and used for free).
It had been decades since rain fell on the town of San Quebrado, but the dead trees did not mind. You can tell a tree is dead by the lack of leaves, the smooth patches and vertical cracks on its trunk, the overall stillness when you stand beside it. There is no shade under any tree and the wind does not blow in San Quebrado, so it is always hot.
Some people assume a dead town would be cooler. It should be cool, like cadaver-cool, my tito used to joke. That makes no sense, I finally explained to him after what was probably the twentieth time he made the joke. A dead body adjusts to the ambient temperature during algor mortis, and does not remain cool throughout. I was eager to show off what I had learned about medicine and science. He sighed and smiled sheepishly, his shoulders sagging a little. I didn’t mean to be rude. I should have just chuckled in agreement.
Eventually we reached that town, where trees are memories and flowers are echoes. By now, I know what that place meant to my tito, how he knew he would go back one day, and how he was the only living boy to escape San Quebrado.
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