March 4, 2019
Monday. There are Baguio mornings that smell like fresh-cut grass, some days assault you with longing—what they smell like exactly I still don't know how to describe now. In my old apartment there is a large window in the upstairs landing looking out to a mountain range. On some days there's nothing but fog, you could almost feel the water droplets on your cheek if you stand by the window long enough. To your left would be the guest bedroom, a tiny bed, and too cold and exposed inside. I remember Baguio on Mondays. Always, if I'm honest.