The Last Matriarchs
in the corner of every house party back then was always a group of chattering yeays
never really knowing what they were talking about, i was nonetheless fascinated by them
and even more fascinated by the little box that was always centered between them — maybe wooden, maybe silver
i would watch as they moved slowly among the items inside, each of them serving a purpose
the betel leaves, the lime stone paste, the betel nut…
their shaky hands moved in routine motion, they have done this many times before
i remember the reddish pink lime stone paste, often encased inside a small, round plastic container
i remember the way the yeays would evenly spread it onto each betel leaf like peanut butter on bread
i remember how they’d place pieces of betel nut — dried and round reddish brown — onto each leaf
and watching as their bony fingers meticulously rolled it all together, like how my dad would roll his tobacco
then, they’d mush the entire thing into the corners of their mouths, chewing and chewing, laughing and laughing
their opened mouths revealing betal nut stained teeth
while the youngins gambled and drank their liquor
while the aunties sat in their corner immersed in gossip
these were the yeays basking in their own little joys, chewing and chewing away
