On that damp and cold night, she kissed the glass pane and left a flyer in a public phone booth on some dark alley. ”Life also exists in the deepest parts of the ocean.” She said. And for her, we were chasing modern-day heroes, a commodity hard to come by nowadays.
Her fragile heart was shattered into frosted pieces. But that only made it countless, she refuted. Before I could even open my mouth to respond, she undressed herself clean to finally make love.
“When we bleed, a part of humanity also reeks.” She sang.
An old man now and her clasps were replaced by arthritis. More and more it often visited me like a loyal friend. I couldn’t even change guitar strings right anymore.
I like spending most of what’s left of my shorter days on a wooden boat.
Over the course of this journey, I am grateful to have made those acquaintances. Different kinds of Tuna, Mackerel and other sorts of fish you’d normally find around the region. And despite the ever-changing weathers, I never really gave up on her. Something about the sea that calms me down and makes me feel connected. I feel like I’m a part of her now, a part of this grand design.
I spend my early mornings in the calmness of the lake, swinging the fishing rod away and just wait for the longest time which I do not mind. Right here I have a steady control. I like listening to the swishing sound of the leaves. They feel no fear when the winds arrive to invite them for a spin. Watching the whiskered terns plunge from the skies and up again, I allow myself exposed out in the open.
Lately, I have also grown fond of my garden. Growing tomatoes, green beans, lettuces, and bell peppers has been a delight. Waking up to their colors, and witnessing life unfold as if they were my children. I have made a promise to take good care of them and I intend to keep that. My life was far from perfect, but she was always good to me, it’s the least thing I could do.
I can still remember that day when we slept together under the flight patterns. Beneath the familiar rumbling sound of the turbine engines, propellers, and the crosswinds. Our eyes fluttered in the ordinariness of that day. My head rested on her thigh, while jet lines intersected through the sallow skies.
The runaways by the runway, seventeen, we will always be.
The other kids raced, passing on twigs until they reached the end of the line. They ran so fast that their shoes barely touched the ground.
In those fleeting moments behind the steel fences, we watched in awe those who took off and flew. And they were so graceful, we were so proud of them. We wanted to encapsulate that world in a fishbowl and keep it forever. Constant that memory was, but we knew that even the earth had to move sometime.
“Save me a seat, will you? I’ll be a little late tomorrow.” A kid exclaimed to his friend under that afternoon sky.
“Make sure to bring hot chocolate in a thermos like always.” The friend required of him.
He’s all grown up now, and he went into the sunset like how cowboys do in those films.
He always rooted for the arrivals and the departures, always the romantic one, while the other counted the hours down for the friend’s safe return.
In those carbonated days of summer, life was easy to comprehend. How I wish we can go back, I always wonder.
Somewhere in a dream, I heard you say, “Fill the gas tank only a quarter full, spend the rest on flowers.”
Flabbergasted, I smacked your head real hard and sneered.
Like sand castles, you insisted that we can always rebuild that day. The hues were lined low, and the sun was almost dimmed. The commander crowed across the field, ordering to sling our rifles and move out.
And everyone did. But I had a change of heart.
I wrote war stories instead.
Yours and hers.
Had I known, I would have done otherwise.
The needle was loose, so the constellations were made compass. Come back and fish with me. Let’s spend an afternoon once more.
Photo by Denvie Balidoy