THE SILENCE of the empty deli is the only company he has. The quiet humming of the fluorescent lights and the ceiling fans match the pace of his breathing, which gradually speeds up the more he takes in the empty tables and unoccupied chairs.
The counter used to be filled with boxes upon boxes of their special tikoys and other products. The heat from the shop’s ovens engulfed the already crowded kitchen and the entire shop. Sounds of workers mingling with each other filled the air, clashing with the customers’ laughter and conversations.
He forces himself to stand, his feet taking him to the kitchen. He passes by its walls, where decade-old family pictures taken inside the shop invade the room. Though motionless, he knows that the eyes stare back at him with a stern gaze. He knows that the eyes wait and anticipate.
His lao-pe, his father, used to say it was their second home, and that it would eventually be his. He recalls the same anxious buzz of that day which almost mirrors the exact feeling he has now.
A few goods remain in the kitchen. He opens one of the hopia boxes, planning to take one, before he stops himself, afraid of never tasting them again.
The smell alone lets him linger on the last memories of his father in the kitchen. Moving about and as passionate as ever, he was just happy to create something that eventually outlives him; one last special delivery.
“I’ll be here,” were his last words before they parted, forever.
Without a doubt, he knows his old man is still here, telling him to keep the lights on.
Finally, he takes a bite. F
