Cloudy December afternoon, Ibajay, Aklan. I step into a classroom at five minutes to one, holding a class record that says fifty-six names on the roll. The room is almost empty.
I pace: door to teacher’s table, table to door, black shoes squeaking on the concrete floor like a nervous heartbeat. Behind the school, the rice fields lie like a brown mat; in front, the national road stretches silently. The sky presses low, offering every excuse to cancel the period. I could blame the weather, blame the harvest chores, blame poverty. Plenty of teachers before me have done exactly that.
Fifty-six names, five bodies.
I stop pacing. Five is enough.
I call the five by name—Amy, Ruel, Jim, Henry, Joselito. They drag the broken chairs into a small circle and read Henley’s lines aloud. When I reach the final stanza, Jim, who wakes at four to clean the pigsty and feed the pigs, mouths the words with me. Amy, who sometimes walks three kilometers barefoot, lifts her chin. Even Joselito, a Balik-aral, sits straighter than the cracked chalkboard.
Outside, the sky stays heavy. Inside, five voices rise, small but certain. I no longer need fifty-six chairs filled.
heavy clouds
unheard voices
rise
("In the Philippines, amihan refers to the season dominated by the trade winds")