I WELCOMED the new year in the hospital. I was on 24-hour shift at the Pay Ward, intermittently called up by nurses for referrals that ranged from possibly fatal complaints (difficulty breathing or chest pain) to electrolyte abnormalities easily corrected by telling the patient to eat a piece of banana. I had brief moments of rest, perhaps the longest ones I've had since I had begun residency two weeks ago. From the call room window I could see fireworks decorating the expanse above Manila Bay. I imagined that, if I were home on New Year's Eve, my street at St. Gabriel would be noisy too. I could see our dog, Benjamin, cowering in fear whenever our neighbors lighted fireworks. The Dizons, who live just right across us, would call us up and invite us to their home; I wonder if their family computer, which we always fantasized about, is still working. My parents would probably be asleep, especially my mother, who cannot tolerate staying up late lest she incur a migraine the next day. But Tatay would wake me and my brothers up sometimes—that much I can remember when I was in elementary school. He would give us firework sticks and light all three of them at the tips with a single matchstick, assuring us that our hands wouldn't need to be amputated because that hardly ever happens if one is careful. I was particularly paranoid; I liked my hands very much.
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