“How old are you, opung?”
“Do you know him?”
“Who are you by the way?” turning her eyes on my father
“I am Ubat, from Lumban Toga down there, remember?”
“Ooh…I know you. You don’t change much, do you?” her wrinkles recall a memory and another as they started talking about the folks who passed away ahead of her.
The history is written beautifully in her eyes and wrinkles.