miki

We play under what looks like blankets strewn across Lola’s tiny apartment. We play for

hours in the heat of the Southern California summer while our parents are at work. The whole lot

of us just running around, making our own fun.

But the blankets are not blankets.

They are fresh miki noodles, each spanning the length of Lola’s apartment for long life,

hand-cut with a meticulous care that Lola shows us every time we go over to play. She never

dares cut them short. It is bad luck, she says. I guess it makes sense. She’s had enough of that

luck in her life.

She drapes these noodles across kitchen chairs, the couch, her bed, small tables, and

ottomans that clutter the place. The only area where we can actually sit is on the floor because

she is always making miki.

She is always making miki. I can’t remember a day when we go over to play when she

isn’t making miki, fresh and salted by, Lola always says, the sweat of those who came before.

–

“Mari!” Lola calls. “It’s time for lunch.” Everyone except me is already lined up next to

the counter by the crockpot and rice cooker, their hands carrying her cheap china bowls and

metal spoon and forks.

As Lola stands by the single surface not covered in miki, spooning out heaps of steaming

white rice and today, adobo, we wait. We wait until she gets to us, giving us our first serving,

making me feel extra special because her smile always widens just a bit more when she got to

me, her only granddaughter. She always calls out my name to catch my attention, always the last

one in line, saving me an extra serving because I always eat the slowest, before she leads us off

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like the Pied Piper and his band of players, to sit under a makeshift fort made of miki instead of

actual blankets.

–

Lola is always making miki. While we play, she starts yet another batch, cracking eggs,

her wrist flicking back and forth to mix, sprinkling in flour, drizzling oil, adding the baking soda.

By the time our parents come to pick us up, she has finished for the day, packing up the dried

miki from a few days before to give to our parents.

“Lola, why are you always making miki?” My oldest cousin, Manong Gabe, constantly

complains. “I want to sit down,” he whines and pouts.

As soon as he complains, though, she immediately starts snapping. “You want to sit

down, boy?” She put her hands on her hips and wags her finger. “Then help me make! Clear it

away faster!”

But she never forces anyone to make miki with her. Manong Gabe always backs off,

mutters an apology. “Sorry, Lola.”

She just shakes her head and mutters, “Stupid boy.”

–

“Come on Mari, we’re going to be late,” my mom says as she tries to usher me out the

door. My dad and older brother – Kuya – are already in the car.

My parents rarely come with me and Kuya to visit Lola at her place. Whenever the

family gets together, everyone gathers at my tito’s house in Santa Monica, one that looks as if it

is off the pages of some magazine. It has more than enough space for all of us – my Tita Rosie

and her son, my Tito Nick and his two boys, and my parents and my brother and I, making

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twelve of us, including Lola. In comparison to her apartment, which is just big enough for her

and her miki.

“Mari,” my dad urges, rolling down the window to say, “let’s go.”

–

“Mark! Maia!” Lola calls out to my parents, smile growing three sizes. “Come in, come

in.” She opens the door wider and there they are – the miki, splayed out like naked bodies at the

beach, drying under the hot sun, getting darker and darker each moment they lay there. Instead of

stretching across couches and chairs and ottomans, they rest neatly on the small, rounded kitchen

table and the countertops.

I see my dad’s eyes widen at the sheer amount of miki and he sighs. “Mom…”

“Mark.” She shakes her head, pulling him close the way a Filipino mother does – both

arms around his tall stature, her small frame reaching just below his shoulders, holding on

tightly. “Not today. Please,” she murmurs, delicate.

Rarely do I ever describe Lola as “delicate,” but it is always on this specific day that she

is quieter. Fragile, almost. On this day, my parents and titos and titas always walk on eggshells

with her – never quite tsking at her absentmindedness or complain about the miki everywhere,

even though I know they complain at home. They actually visit her place, instead of driving her

to Tito Nick’s.

When Tita Rosie, her husband, and Manong Gabe arrive, we get back in the car.

And we drive.

We drive to the ocean.

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We drive to the ocean, where the sand meets the sea, our shoes slipped off moments

before, the feeling of the coarse grains underneath our feet. We place our things on the sand just

before the dip.

We walk toward the open mouth of the shore. We begin to wade, the water splashing

against our ankles. I lose my balance, but my dad takes hold of my hand and keeps me upright.

He makes sure I am okay.

Lola leads us. She is in deep, the water almost to her knees. She faces east toward Santa

Catalina, Ilocos Sur. She closes her eyes. For a moment, she is no longer here with us. She is

with her husband on his birthday. She murmurs, “Ayayaten ka.” I love you.

I glance at my dad, who is just looking at his mother. He moves toward her, still holding

onto my hand, and places a hand on her shoulder. My mom places her hand on top of my

father’s, then takes hold of my brother’s. Together, we create something bigger than ourselves.

–

When we return to Lola’s apartment, we create a circle of mismatched chairs, all different

heights and wood, pulled from different tables and areas of the apartment. Lola goes into the

kitchen.

I follow behind. I stand in the doorway of the small kitchen, vertical and just enough

space for her and one other person.

From the pantry, she gets a chipped ceramic bowl. From the fridge, she finds the carton

of eggs. She gets the flour from the cabinet. The baking soda.

“Lola,” I ask gently, “can you teach me how to make miki?”

She stops.

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And even though I’m almost sure my dad is behind me, shaking his head, pleading, Not

now, I don’t care.

She takes a deep breath and I see her shoulders move up, then sag back down. She curves

over the empty space of counter that isn’t covered with drying miki and I see her shoulders

shake, slightly. Barely. I see the glisten of her tears fall into the dough, like the way droplets of

water fall from hanging rocks in caves. Slow and crystallizing.

“Mari.” She turns around. She looks at me, her dark-brown eyes watered down with age

and loss. Grief. Then, she wraps her arms around me, and we hold each other.

We hold each other even though someone needs to make lunch. We hold each other even

though she needs to make more miki. We hold each other because that is what she needs. We

hold each other because sometimes the best thing you can do is just hold someone.

–

“Miki is made of eggs, flour, baking soda, and oil.” Lola points out each ingredient, as

she begins to knead the dough from the last batch she started. “And something secret,” she adds,

a slight mischief coating her voice, but there is an implication that she doesn’t want me to know

just yet. She gestures for me to watch her, then for me to join her after a few minutes. I look at

her to see if I’m doing it right, but I see a different kind of smile, one that is kind and warm.

Sentimental. And then I see a single tear slip out of the corner of her eye.

I pause, put a hand on her shoulder while she continues kneading. “Lola…”

She turns and looks at me, placing a hand on my cheek. “Mari, I’m okay,” she reassures.

“The last time I was here making miki with someone was with my mama. And…”

“Lolo?”

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She nods, looking away for a second to wipe her eyes. “I didn’t think I’d get the chance

to make miki with someone else again.” She looks at me and her smile gets bigger.

I smile, turn back to the dough. “So, what’s next?”

–

“Do you ever miss home?” I ask Lola one morning while we make miki together. There

aren’t any little ones playing around us – they started school just a few weeks ago. “The

Philippines, I mean.”

I see her eyes flicker, a poignancy. She sighs but keeps kneading the dough she made

before I arrived earlier this afternoon. “I do… miss the Philippines. But my home is here now.

There’s nothing left for me there.” She shakes her softly. “Not anymore.”

“What happened?” I don’t look at her. I don’t wait for an answer. I don’t hope for one. I

just keep kneading.

She douses her hands in flour, the batter beginning to stick to her palms. She finds

scissors. She snips the length of the noodles. She doesn’t use a knife. “You know why I don’t cut

these short?”

“Long life,” I tell her.

She nods. “My mother died young. Too young. And I had to be the one to walk home

from school and tell my family that she was gone.” She pauses. “My husband died young. Too

young. I had to leave. I was tired of the ghosts.” The sound of the scissors snapping closed hang

below us, a fog that grazes against the grass. She looks up at me. “I was tired, Mari.”

–

She closes her eyes, in her own bed, and rests.

“Dios ti agngina, Lola.” Thank you, Lola.

7

–

I watch as the little ones – my little nieces and nephews – play under what looks like

blankets strewn across Lola’s, now my, tiny apartment. They play for hours in the heat of the

Southern California summer, while their parents – my brother and my cousins, are at work.

I remember being that small, running around, careful not to hit the drying miki with my

face. Years ago. The little ones aren’t as careful as I was. They hit the noodles, stretching it much

further than it should.

But even before, I remember wondering why Lola always made miki. I never thought to

ask her while I played in her living room. Because then, she only spoke through her actions. Her

words were a rarity.

But it was when she made miki that she told stories. Her voice became audible.

So, I asked her once, “Why do you always make miki?”

She sighed and she continued to mix the ingredients in her chipped ceramic bowl. I got

her a new bowl – a cool, silver metal – for her eightieth, but she always insists on using the

chipped one anyway. “I always tell you that everyone adds something special to their miki.” I

nodded. “For me,” she began, “I think about who I used to make it with. My mama and your

lolo. I think about the stories they told me while we were in the kitchen together, sitting on the

floor underneath the strips of miki covering the place because all of the chairs were taken.” She

let out a laugh. “And I weave those stories into the miki. I remember them. And I put it into my

miki.” She stopped. Stopped mixing. Stopped making miki.

“It is their miki that keeps them here. With me. Their love. That strength.” she said. “It

was how I was able to go home and tell my family that Mama was gone. It was how I was able to

come here, start a new life. It was making miki.”

8

–

“Come on, Mari,” my dad calls, his voice coarse over the apartment speakerphone.

“We’re here.”

We walk outside.

We get in the car.

And we drive.

We drive to the ocean where the sand meets the sea, our shoes slipped off moments

before, the feeling of the coarse grains underneath our feet. We place our things on the sand just

before the dip.

We walk toward the open mouth of the shore. We begin to wade, the water splashing

against our ankles. I lose my balance, but my best friend, my love, takes hold of my hand. He

keeps me upright. He makes sure that I am okay.

Instead of Lola leading us, I do. I let the water go up past my ankles. I face Ilocos Sur,

her home. Because that is where she is. Home.

Home with her husband.

Home with her mother.

Ayayaten ka. I love you.

My dad places a hand on my shoulder. My mom places her hand on top of my father’s,

then takes hold of my brother’s, which clutches his wife’s.

Together, we weave her stories into her legacy. Her miki.

Now, she can rest.

Artist Statement — "Miki" is a story that is rooted in the truth of my great-grandmother, who served as the matriarch of my father's side of the family. She was called "Mama Ching" by her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Though she passed before I was able to meet her, I wanted to write about what she left behind – the nostalgic and warm memories of a loving grandmother. "Miki" is a piece that honors her and my family. 

Christyn Refuerzo (she/her) — a Filipino-American writer from the Bay Area. She studies creative writing and literature at Sarah Lawrence College. When she's not writing or studying, she can be found with a cup of coffee, listening to music and reading.