I left the jeans in the house I grew up in, which was heavily flooded.
The storm’s name was Ondoy, aka Ketsana.
The typhoon hit full swing right after I got out of work. It was Saturday noon.
You see, I rushed out, through the flood, to meet somebody.
It was the peak of a three-week fling.
What I didn’t expect, as I have written in a poem, was that I would fall for him.
Not that the wound is still fresh, or that I would give that somebody a second chance.
The memory has long faded. What I have left is the poem, the name of a scent, and these jeans.
Yes, I admit, sometimes I still wonder where he could be. But no, it doesn’t matter whether he also remembers me.
Most stains are ugly. If for anything, I am glad that the pattern on my jeans look nicer than whatever has faded from memory.