This goes to my sister.
Last night I heard the fierce wind blew. Brittle twigs fell off from where they thought they proudly stood. The dense downpour didn’t stop while my eyes were tightly shut. They refuse to see anything other than odd puddles of sullied waters with mismatched hues. Discrete but unbounded. And a still reflection that was much to near yet elusively real. Dripping wet umbrellas, an abandoned coffee in a rummaged cup and an urgent message. That was from you.
Did the rough wind hurt you, too? Was it the same wind that shook me to sensibility? And did the bitter rain sting your eyes? Just like what it did in mine? That I had to run through the violent storm to the nearest phone booth to make it in time? Did I tell you to avoid getting trapped in turbulence? Much like this? Much like ours?
Scenes of prosaic themes flashed. Unfinished piano pieces being played in the middle of the night. Late-night conversations in bed as emotions spontaneously descend. Characteristic odes we could distinctly remember and identify with childhood settings. A young mother patiently waiting. A father arriving home. Two children dreaming. All of which only you and I could understand. A remnant of old frail dolls we play with, comparison of lines in our palms and simple poems we wrote in long forgotten journals.
And a neighborhood in the street you will never forget.
Those aging photographs of very much familiar faces remind us of all that we are and of things we are made of. Did I tell you the man in a picture who happened to be my father requested me to add outdated phrases when addressing him couple of weeks back to pay respects? Of course his sudden peculiar orders will never work now that I’m nineteen and his oldest daughter is twenty. Did I ever tell you how much I missed my mom’s spaghetti? Did I tell you my two little sisters run and dance around and scream excitedly whenever I come home on Friday nights? Did I tell you they are your family, too? Our home is where we’d run to when intense winds become too hurtful. It’s the same place we’d go to when we’re withering and old.
I have to tell you that once I looked at the palm of my hand and I saw yours. I saw a girl looking at her palm, too, on a nostalgic night like this. Much like that movie, yes. She looked exactly like you. I saw a small girl laughing at things of not much importance. The same girl meekly bowing her head as piercing words come her way, waiting for the wounding phrases to end. Straining to speak. Hoping for the cold voice to tone down. Wishing for the world to stop. And wiping a tear has drown her insistent defenses.
I saw you. Yet another girl whose life was very much like mine. A life spent playing street games with other children whose vague faces recount gone eras. Saturday morning cartoons and corn flakes in bowls. Childish battles over endless refusals to turn the lights off. And a life spent crying over the same movie and paperbacks.
In a tangible history enclosing us, a parcel of this we weren’t responsible for. But was placed inexorably to our shoulders. Woven tales of blood-related mortals handed down to us. That we could only alter and overcome.
We’ve been told the same lines but we keep repeating the same mistakes. Unpardonable faults are mine. Not yours. Yours are warranted. So I was never stronger that you are like you thought. Virtues of heroism are for the brave and unwavering. You could always fight back. Because you choose not to lose.
And you will love. Much more than that. Much like ours. Because it’s the only way to live.
As we were carved
By our own litany
Of life and love
And death. Like loss.
Like a hazy memory
Of church bells at six
You will remember
A melody hummed
One summer afternoon.
You will remember
A walk on the same street
A familiar house
A distant face
You will remember.
Close your eyes
And bury
A momentary
Tragedy.
Believe.
Because some dreams last.
Send me a message if you cry in your sleep. Or just let me look at the palm of my hand.
