Editor’s note: “Widow” by Aidan Bernales inaugurates the REVERSE feature of Cha. In this searing and lyrical narrative, a grieving politician navigates the intersecting terrains of power, memory, and private sorrow, as his late wife’s sacrifice reverberates through both his campaign and his conscience—ultimately compelling him to reckon with what hope truly demands.
“Daog ang paglaom! Daog ang paglaom!”
Your adviser whispers in your ear: that’s your cue. Smile once more. No spinach or chia seeds between your teeth. No—you’re clean. You’re virginal. You’re white. Now own it. Ascend that stage. The emcees donkey bray. Their perverted eyes in the crowd attempting to glimpse the human beneath the shine. Mr Politician. Scaly creature in campaign lobster-red. Your bannered face splashed across the island, from Santander to Bantayan. Eksplosibong palakpakan for the new Governor of Cebu—Rodolfo Lao!
There is silence at the dinner table. The first silence in your life since the campaign. It’s moratorium, and your stentorian emporium has clammed up. Your pasta is tolerable, but far from al dente. An amateur cook at forty-four, you spent the first half of your life relying on motherly rations—the next, on wifely ones. Asawa. There is a leaden taste in your mouth when you even think the word; your fingers feel as heavy as bullets. You recall her cheap fanaticism for Taylor Swift. You two danced in the refrigerator light, as she sings in that one song—but it never worked. Your fridge is almost always empty now—a cold, humming cemetery of souvenir magnets.
Custom piña barong—the last time you visited the mausoleum. The polished tiles, pearlescent. She had planned all of this nonsense for when you both were grey-haired and weak-kneed—that not even death could stall the Lao opulence. Now there are cameras to capture it. That private moment of your tears, smeared across social media. Many offer comfort from the comforts of their tiny homes. The monstrous anonymous find solace in your grief. The snot on your upper lip tastes of lakewater. Fog, where your eyes ought to be. Your adviser to your left: Keep it going. They love you—and we’re live.
You live another day, and she does not. It’s unfair. This SUV still smells new. You’re on your way to where—Carcar? Carmen? Consolación? It hardly matters; all of this is a consolation prize. Rising for the speech, your moustache is damp and cloying. Under the spotlight, you can just about make out the child in his father’s arms, waving your inane slogan printed with your face—as though you’ve forgotten who you are. Your adviser, the other day: Try to be more sincere when you smile—people can tell when it’s all bullshit. You replied: ’Cos it’s all bullshit. Your adviser smiled, patted your cheek: I know. I wrote it. She didn’t text much, but when she did, it was always something uplifting. Usually a quote from Jesus—though the source varied: Roman Catholic, Protestant, Anglican, Moravian. By the end, you could no longer discern what kind of Christian she was—you only knew she was a believer. You remember when you told her you’d be running; she made a pouty face: Good luck. Born agains believe in luck? you asked, and she laughed. How would I know? I’m not born again. It’s that kind of remark that makes you miss her—Friday night in a boardroom full of unpaid marketing interns, pitching you slogans and TikTok campaign strategies. That blue bubble with the Facebook link floats before your face, spitting at you.
A reporter, on a particularly humid day: Sir Lao, how will your wife’s death affect your campaign? You’re too preoccupied by how he addressed you to consider the question. Sir—as if you’ve been knighted. The reporter was escorted off the premises. You watched him thrash and protest, invoking freedom of speech. You wanted to bash his head in with a meat cleaver. Your adviser speaks on your behalf: The mayor is appalled by such a question. How could someone who calls themselves a journalist ask something so out-of-pocket? That the campaign is even in the mayor’s mind right now is ludicrous, he… And that’s when you cut him off—the babble is deafening. Because no matter how much he talks, or whether he pulls a funny face or strips and flagellates himself, the cameras are on you. You speak, from the heart—as you always do: Everything I do—and everything I ever did—is for her. We will not give up. Modaog ang paglaom!
Hope. In Bisaya, paglaom. So says the British pastor. It’s a kindergarten pronunciation—his pag too pug, his lao too law. Then—an idea ignites: You can’t spell paglaom without Lao. The funeral crowd devours it, because he’s white and he’s trying. He was her favourite—because he always preached hope. His Old Testament was the promised land; his New Testament, the resurrection. He offered himself to the altar upon hearing of her passing—every night, in his Welsh, an institution at your dinner table. Father said he’d be honoured to hear your confession, as though relishing the prospect of drama—and so, eventually, you relented. You bit, but you didn’t chew. When you sat before him, two Monobloc chairs in an empty room, and he held your hand. He said you were warm. He asked, Do you have a fever? And you said no, and you said you weren’t ready, and you said you didn’t understand. He asked: Her passing? And you said: No—your stupid fucking accent. His eyes bulged, as if someone had squeezed him. You’re hurting right now, Rodolfo, I understand. I understand that you don’t need me.
We need this, you tell her. The lights of downtown flicker in her eyes. Her hair is wild down her back, though the strands resting on her shoulder are gentler. Her face is scrunched the way it is when she sneezes—or orgasms. Puffy, puppy eyes—she’s been crying, and who wouldn’t? She’s giving birth to a leader in the making. You remember when you made love, ten months ago; she remained naked in the foetal position, eyes closed, even after you’d finished showering. You giggled at her persistence—Is that from that new guru you’ve been talking to? you asked. She told you yes. She told you, I’m a metaphor. I’m the baker and the oven. Usually, the baker does other chores—does the whipping, cleans the floor—while the bread bakes. But I’m the baker and the oven. What does that mean? you laughed, after realising there was nothing left to the story. That means I have to behave, she said, or else we’ll lose him again. So that’s what you tell her now, on the operating table. Her heart is chirping. Her legs are open. You’re the baker and the oven, babe, you say. And she replies, in a voice you’ve never heard before: It’s just too much. For the baker. For the oven. But you are God.
The doctor is a woman. Her voice is grating, but you listen—because she has something to say, and she must say it. She is a woman. She must say it. Just fucking say it. The doctor says it: This will kill her. Then she pauses. Her hair is curly, her skin morena. A tattoo hides beneath her coat—an insect’s leg peeking out at the shoulder. Her eyes are tired, but they shine. She says it again: This will kill her. But she wishes to go through with it. You have to stop her. Me? you say, the accusation falling like a slab of meat for you to cleave. Me—when you’re the doctor? Then she says: But you’re the husband. I took an oath. I want to save her, but she has chosen. And so I beg you—please—spare her life. Your head is a rock, it is so heavy. Your pulse tries to rip out of your skin. The doctor’s eyes—like stalagmites—stare with daggers and dares: Will you? You might. You might just save her life. But you remember that conversation—after the fifth miscarriage—when you were drinking coffee and the yaya was wiping blood off the floor. She told you she would give you a child, no matter what. And you thought: What a poor choice of words. Surely she meant give us a child. But you don’t know—the coffee was slick and hot as it slid down your throat. You looked at her, your island girl. Your move, you said. Your cue to exit.
Header image: Ang Kiukok, “Troubled Man“, 1999.
How to cite: Bernales, Aidan. “Widow.” Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, 15 Jul. 2025, chajournal.blog/2025/07/15/widow.
Aidan Bernales is a Cebuano poet, fictionist, journalist, and musician currently studying Communication at the Ateneo de Manila University. His work has appeared in Rappler, Inquirer, Climate Tracker Asia, Transit, engendered lit, Sinuman Magazine, The Guidon, and Heights. His music is available on Spotify. His debut poetry collection is published by 8Letters.
Cha 