A TYPHOON speaks in the images of the places it has visited—the villagers who lost their loved ones; the houses and cars buried in the mud; the scenic spots battered by strong winds; the infrastructure and agricultural lands torn by flood; the clueless faces of dogs either left behind or rescued by their owners.
Typhoon is a tyrant, just like “Rolly.” When it seizes places, it proclaims its malevolent authoritarian nature, forcing families to abandon their abode. Those who insist on staying behind could either escape its wrath or plunge into its morbid gift—grief.
Typhoon Rolly (Goni) battered the Bicol region, and it had left 16 people dead as of Monday, Nov. 2, 2020. It has weakened and is expected to exit the Philippine Area of Responsibility by Tuesday morning, Nov. 3.
A typhoon is always an unwanted guest. It comes and goes on its natural will.
Now, after a typhoon leaves, the places it battered can stand back on their feet. They can also mourn their losses for a longer period of time before realizing the eminence of a blue sky and fine clouds under the sun’s empire.
The other language spoken by a typhoon is in the memory of a survivor.
In a survivor’s memory, a bygone typhoon never stops narrating its horrors.