Her voice was thunderous, all things went mute, headed for the backgrounds, power audibles coming through.
“Natapos mo ba?”
“Opo,” I said with my head down, looking at my dirty toenails.
She held my hand and dragged me down the hallway. My slippers slip, slipping away. She led me to my table inside my bedroom and picked up the piece of paper with my words written. She examined it like Sister Agnes of Santo Tomas Ed., with her slappy-itchy swat hand ready for the swatting. Her eyes squinted, her lips pursed, a sigh followed. After a few seconds, she folded the paper — with my hour’s worth of work on it — into a tiny one-by-one square, tiny enough to fit behind her tragus and snuggly within her outer ear.
“Again!” she said. “Again!”