Still

                  

                  No one hears the forest breathe.

                  No one sees each flap of the hummingbirds’ wings.

                  No one feels the fingers of the sun’s first rays.

                  But I do.

                  I do.

                  Noise, noise, noise. Too much noise. The kettle screeches, the cars scream, the lights blink and refuse to be put out. Away, away from the noise I run. I run and run. I run deep into the heart of the forest until I am swallowed by the soil and roots that hold everything together, gasping.

                  Here, I am safe. Here, I am home. Here, there is only the soft hum of the forest-song and the trees whispering in hushed tones while lightly dropping their acorns and pinecones into my waiting hands. I scoop up some warm soil in my palms and bury them in the earth, where they belong. The forest-song must go on.

                  The pale morning sun yawns and slowly stretches its yellow-cream fingers towards me, and I try to catch them but they shy away. I like the way the sun teases me, but it is not the voice I am looking for.

                  A bird chirps nearby, its voice trilling in the loveliest pattern, and I am tempted to follow it to its nest and sing with it, but it is not the voice I am looking for.

                  There is a sudden gust of wind that makes the leaves twirl and the branches billow and sway to its rhythm, and I hear the young leaves giggling with delight, but it is not the voice I am looking for.

                  A squirrel rushes up a tree, swishing its bushy tail and chattering rapidly, probably telling me to come with it so we can chitter and chatter all day. I like the way this squirrel laughs, but it is not the voice I am looking for.

                  I try looking for it underneath stones, by the riverbed, in the bushes, on top of my third favorite boulder, but the voice is still not there. It is not in the water’s gurgles, the ants’ working song, the tree trunks’ hum, or even in the earth’s heartbeat.

                  I try something different this time. Now, I am lying still on the ground with my arms and legs spread wide, feeling as if the warmth of the earth is pulling me into an embrace and I am sinking in its glorious warmth. A soft breeze blows by and gently strokes my face and dances through my hair, and I find it. A still, small voice, and it says,

                  “Welcome to a new day, child. I love you.”





image source

Five Past Four

    (or read it on my tumblr)

A short story inspired by this lovely picture and the song One Sail by Meg & Dia. 

photo by pketron, Coney Island Beach

       

            He’s there again.

            Gray hoodie, dirty shorts, barefoot, hair blowing in the wind, and I am tempted to run over and splash seawater all over him but I know better.

            He is standing on the rock slimy with seaweed and broken fishnets and the red slipper that belongs to nobody, perfectly balanced. He’s stood there many times before and has never fallen, not even a little slip, because he grew up with that rock. He knows every sharp edge, every little nick, and every parasite stuck to that big, gray rock, but I know for sure that that rock knows him better than he knows it.

            It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. Not too late, but not too early either, which is why he’s always here at four o’clock and I mean always. It’s a quiet day today, so quiet that despite it not being very windy, you can hear the wind whispering softly into your ear and into your soul and maybe even a message from someone far away. The waves are soft, too, and smooth. The water’s surface reminds me of the silky looking, cheap, three-in-one sachet coffee that they show in commercials, and I like it. I can taste the salt in the air and smell the chipped paint from the little boat some meters away from the shore, and see the young boy in that boat paddling. Everything feels connected and in its place today, and I like it. I like it a lot.

            The beach seems cleaner this afternoon, too, or maybe it’s just me. My feet sink into the wet sand with each step, marking the shore finely and precisely. I carefully place one foot after the other as I walk, not wanting to ruin the perfect footprints I’ve left on the beach, the only proof of my being here for today. The prints make me feel as if I’ve left my mark on the world, or maybe it’s just me.

            Yes, it’s probably just me, because I don’t really matter right now.

            I’m trying to tell you about him, right?

            Anyway.

            I have known him my whole life, counting the months when we were in the womb. Our fathers were both seamen, his father worked in a shipping company and mine in a fishing company. They were best friends and knew each other their whole lives, too. We both grew up wanting to be exactly like our fathers. We knew how to tie sailor’s knots, swim in deep waters, and paddle our own boats long before we knew how to ride a bike. I still don’t know how to ride a bike, actually.

            My mother never approved of me being a sailor. Maybe it’s because I’m a girl and I can sing. She wants me to go to the city with a powdered face, wearing high heels and a nice dress and sing my way to fame, like the other singers we see on TV who come from the provinces and become rich overnight. Everyone tells me I sing well, but I don’t believe them because they base a person’s singing talent on how high their karaoke score is, and everyone knows that the key to getting a perfect score is to sing loud, and even shout. The only person I know whom I can trust is him. And he told me I sing well, so I sing well. But I still want to be a sailor.

            He doesn’t want to be a seaman anymore, though. Ever since… ever since his father didn’t come home that Saturday night he was supposed to about a year ago.

            I know why. We all do. The shipping company’s owner, a foreigner, had been greedy and overloaded the ship to save money by cutting it down from two trips to one trip, saving and making him money in one go. The overloaded ship had crawled its way through the sea and sunk almost halfway to its destination when it hit a small typhoon. According to the investigators, the ship left no survivors, but there are still a lot of bodies missing. His dad’s is one of them.

            He thinks his father is still out there. I want to think so, too, but the idea is impossible. He is the only one who thinks that he is still alive, the only one. Even his mother is convinced that he’s gone, and has tried telling him that a million times, but he always says to her with a stern, sure voice, “I will wait for him, Ma. I will wait for him like vultures wait for bodies.”

            I always found him creepy and a little bit deluded for saying that, but that really is the perfect description for how he stands on that rock.

            Silent, still, unmoving, dressed in gray.

   Waiting, waiting, and waiting.

    I reach him. He doesn’t move or make any sign of knowing I’m there, but I know that he knows that I’m there, because every afternoon at five minutes past four, I’m here, too. I climb the rock nearest to his and stand beside him, breathing in the sea, the sand, the birds, the air, everything. I look up and watch him watching the horizon.

   The day his dad died was the day he died, too. It seems that all the love he ever had in him went down with that ship and stayed at the bottom of the ocean. It’s not that he became mute or refused to eat. He still talked, but it was empty and meaningless and just not the same. He just wasn’t the same.

   His eyes are lifeless, yet full of longing. I can tell that he’s running out of hope. Something inside him is dying, even though he’s already dead. His soul, maybe? I can see it next to the shore. He reminds me of a ship with a lone sail in the middle of the ocean. He is lost and wandering and will soon hit something and sink if no one will hold him down, hold him close.

   I can do that.

   I can be his anchor.

   I’ve always been.

   Been trying, at least.

   He looks down at me, barely blinking and puts his hands in the pockets of his shorts. I know he’s about to say something.

   “There’s no wind today. I can’t hear him if there’s no wind. There’s supposed to be wind,” he says, looking out to the sea once more.

   “Didn’t he warn you not to make friends with the weather?” I reply. His dad had always told us this, because he hated how the weather could turn everything upside down in a split second.  I hate the weather, too. You can never trust the weather. Never.

   “Whatever, I want the wind,” he says.

   “You’re a baby.”

   “Shut up.”

   So shut up I do. I resist the urge to throw a witty comeback at him and stand there instead, gazing at the horizon. The ocean is beautiful and constant and forever, and I like it. I look up at him to say something about it when I see him slowly rising onto the tips of his toes, as if he is about to jump into the water. I reach up and pull the hem of his hoodie down, forcing him back onto the soles of his feet.

   “Watch it. Tita Gigi will kill us both if you fall,” I say, my grip on the bottom of his gray hoodie tighter. “And how am I supposed to carry you all the way back to the –”

   He suddenly whips his head toward me and I am shocked by the tears I see filling his eyes. He quickly wipes them away with his sleeve before they spill over and I still don’t let go.

   “He will never make it home, and I know it. I’ve known it all this time,” his voice is shaky but he manages to say each word loud and clear. Suddenly, he is like a little boy again, waiting for his dad to come home after work, worrying because it is already dark and the rice on the table is getting cold. His eyes are sad, but they’re alive. He is crying, but there is meaning to what he’s saying. I want to shake him and slap him and cry because he’s come to his senses but instead, I just swallow. I swallow hard.

   “No, he will never make it home, but you have,” I say. A fresh sea breeze hits us, cool and lovely. I want to drink it. I take a deep breath and in the wind, I smell the strong, clear scent of spirit and life. He’s come back.

   

   He starts crying and wiping away his bottled up tears, sniffling and body shaking and chest heaving, but he’s alive. He’s an ugly crier, but he doesn’t care and neither do I. He lets me stay, and I let him cry.

   I continue to hold onto him in case his tears give him the fresh energy to float away with the sea breeze and disappear into the skyline. I know it’s not possible, but I hold him anyway.

   I hold him and hold him.

   It’s darker now, and I can see the first stars peeping at us from the sky, telling us to start heading back home. I don’t know how long we stood there, him crying and me holding, but I know that tomorrow when he comes back at four o’clock I’ll be here, too, at five minutes past four, just like I’ve always been.

   Always. 

Watching Feathers Float

This story is based on Shane Koyczan's spoken word poem, "The Crickets Have Athritis".  Late post, I wrote this in February. 

image source

“Jasper?”

“Hey, Lewis.”

“It’s time.”

“Alright.”

“Hurry up.”

“Will do.”

 Sitting up on my bed, I looked around the hospital room to see if there were any doctors or nurses. Satisfied that we were alone, I ripped off the needle taped to my arm and pulled off my hospital gown. I grabbed my jeans from under my pillow and hurriedly slipped them on.

 “Jasper!” hissed Lewis, still in his dinosaur pajamas. “Will you hurry up before someone sees us?”

 “Just shut up and be patient,” I snapped, struggling to get into my shoes. I immediately regretted it, but I didn’t bother apologizing to him. As soon as my shoes were on, I tiptoed to Lewis’ bed and helped him change out of his pajamas and into the clothes we’d hidden under his pillow. I eyed the dextrose stuck to his arm.

 “I think we should leave that on,” I said.

 “Nah, let’s just take it off,” Lewis started to pull at the tape, but I stopped him.

 “You need that,” I said firmly.

 “No, I don’t.”

 “Yes, you do.”

 “It’s not like it can do anything for me anymore.”

 I immediately withdrew my hand from his arm and looked away. I mean, what do you say to that?

 I felt a tug on my shirt and looked down at Lewis with an impatient look on his face. In his right hand, he held a pencil and a notebook. Before I could ask him what the pencil and notebook were for, he pulled my hand and started leading me to the doorway.

 Opening the door just enough to peep through, I checked if there was anybody outside. Certain that no one was around, I scooped Lewis up into my arms and carried him to the elevator.

 We were able to make it out of the hospital, dodging into bathrooms, hiding behind beds, and just simply staying low. We had our hoods up the whole time, in case security cameras would identify us.

 A gust of wind hit us in our faces as soon as we stepped out of the hospital. It was a nice, fresh wind, one that made Lewis smile. He slid off from my arms and grabbed hold of my hand. We crossed the street and walked for a bit until we found a nice bench, which we sat on.

 “Where do you wanna go first?” I asked, stretching. Lewis didn’t answer. He was busy drawing and scribbling something in his notebook. I tried to look at what he was drawing, but he covered the page with his small hand.

 “No peeping,” he stuck his tongue out at me. I stuck my tongue out at him.

 “I just wanna see what you’re drawing,” I said, trying to get his notebook.

 “Nuh-uh. You can only see this when I finish this whole thing. Don’t worry, I’ll leave this to you,” he calmly went on drawing, while I just sat there, looking at him and thinking.

  A drop of water on my nose brought me back. I looked up and saw that the sky was darkening, and it was starting to drizzle. I grabbed Lewis’ hand, and we ran until he pointed and yelled, “There’s the diner!”

 We went inside the diner, and I helped Lewis into the high stool. He scowled at me, saying that he was already nine years old and could get into a stool himself. I just shrugged and took a look at the menu. I saw a waitress approaching us, but before I could order, Lewis beat me to it.

 “Yeah, we’ll be having a whole apple pie, please,” he grinned. The waitress raised an eyebrow at Lewis then looked at me.

 “Yeah, that,” I told her. She looked at us funnily and disappeared into the kitchen.

 “A whole apple pie?”

 “Yup. Then, I’ll eat it with my hands, straight from the pan. I’ve always wanted to do that,” said Lewis, licking his lips. “And besides, everything tastes better when you eat it with your hands.”

 The pie didn’t take long, and soon, the sweet, spicy aroma of apple pie filled our noses and made our mouths water. I paid for the pie then and there, so that I wouldn’t forget to later. We waited for a few minutes for it to cool before digging in, unwashed hands and all.

 “This… is… the life!” Lewis managed to spit out in between chews. There was apple pie all over his mouth, chin, and some parts of his cheek. His hood had fallen off, and his shiny, bald head was exposed, but he didn’t care. His eyes were dancing as he scooped up another helping of pie with his cupped hand and stuffed it into his mouth.

 I smiled at him and he gave me a thumbs-up. Lewis continued to wolf down his pie, while I walked to the little sink in the corner to wash the pie off my hands.

 I could see Lewis from the mirror. He looked extremely happy, finishing off the last of the pie in his small hands. I looked outside, watching the rain fall and pour. What do you know? I thought. Rain on a sad, yet happy day. It made me angry at whoever was controlling the weather. Why make it rain now? It’s just making everything worse.

 I sat down on the stool, swinging from side to side. I watched Lewis drawing again in his notebook, looking so content and peaceful. I felt angry. It was so unfair. Why Lewis? What did he ever do to deserve this? Why---

 “Do you believe in angels?” Lewis asked me, without looking up. The question took me by surprise. I didn’t want to answer his question, knowing my answer would disappoint him. But I did anyway.

 “Well… no,” I said. Lewis simply smiled. His smile seemed to tell me that even a sixteen year old should believe in angels. In miracles. In hope.

 “Are you scared?” I managed to ask him. I suddenly wished that I hadn’t. We were supposed to be out here, having a good time. Instead, I had brought up the very subject I wanted to avoid.

 “No,” he said slowly. “I think that dying is just the beginning of something new. I heard somewhere that it’s the door to another place. Somewhere far better than the one here.”

 I looked at Lewis with amazement. He was really something else. A nine-year-old kid not afraid to die? It was ridiculous. Everyone’s afraid to die. I’m afraid to die. How could he not be afraid?

 “Let’s go, Jasper,” Lewis got up and wiped his hands on his pants.

 “But it’s raining,” I reasoned. “And it’s thundering out there.”

 “Exactly.”

“I thought you were scared of thunder.”

“I don’t care. We need to learn how dance in the rain.”

“Learn to wha----” Lewis cut me off by pulling me out the front door, pushing me into the street, and into the pouring rain. I was drenched at once, but it felt good.

 “Watch this!” Lewis shouted. He started dancing just like how any other normal kid would dance, with exaggerated movements and lots of jumping. I laughed and he yelled for me to try it to.

 “Just move your feet like this, and make your hands go up and down like this,” he demonstrated. I tried my best, but ending up slipping and falling on my butt. We both laughed and enjoyed the rain beating down on our bodies. I closed my eyes and stuck out my tongue, letting the cool rainwater slide down my throat. A deep rumble in the sky sounded.

 “I’m not scared of thunder anymore!” he grinned triumphantly. “Because I danced in the rain!”

 “Because you what?” I yelled, not being able to hear him properly through the rain.

 “Because I----” Lewis started to cough and shake.

 “Lewis?” I opened my eyes. He was shuddering and he started to fall…

 “Lewis!”

 He slowly opened his eyes and let them wander around the hospital room. He tried to sit up, but I gently held him back.

 “Don’t get up,” I said. I kept one eye on him, and the other on the monitor.

 “I’m dying, aren’t I?” he whispered. I couldn’t answer him, or look him in the eye. I didn’t want him to see how sad and angry I was. I didn’t want him to see how much I wished it were me dying on that hospitable bed instead of him. How much I wished that he were the one going home in a few minutes, and not me.

 “I knew today was going to be my last day. I don’t know how, I just felt it,” he coughed.

 “Your parents are on their way,” I somehow choked out. Lewis didn’t even seem to hear what I said. Instead, he cocked his head toward the notebook on his bedside table.

 “You can have that now. I’m not gonna need it anymore.”

 “Lewis----”

 “Hey, Jasper, remember our first day as hospital roommates?” Lewis grinned. I tried to smile.

 “Yeah.”

 “Remember how we’d pull out the feathers from the pillows and watch them float to the ground?”

 “What about it?”

 Lewis reached into his pillow and pulled out a feather. It was a nice, white feather. He twirled it for a while, admiring it. Then, he reached out his hand and said, “This is for you.”

 I took the feather, and…

 Beep.

 A flat line.

 It’s been a month since Lewis passed. I will never forget how hard I cried when I opened the notebook and found drawings of all the good times we had. He was no Van Gogh, but to me, those little stick men were the best drawings I’d ever seen.

 Ever since I met Lewis, I see the world in a different light now. I’ve learned what it means to dance in the rain. I realized that what Lewis actually meant was to face your fears and face them head-on.

 I believe in hope now. I believe in miracles, too.

 And heck, I sure believe in angels now.

 Because right before the line went flat, Lewis looked at the feather and I heard him whisper,

 “That’s the first one I grew.”

The Rain Story

It rained that night.

 The night he left.

 It rained and rained, just like today.

 It’s been raining all day, without ceasing. Sometimes the drops fall softly, but not always. Each one has a story to tell, and right now, they’re telling my story. Each drop reminds a person of something significant, whether they want to remember it or not. A year ago, I wouldn’t have wanted to remember. I would’ve tried to push it all the way to the back of my mind, not wanting to relive that night, the night he left. Today, though, I can remember. I want to remember so that I won’t forget.

 As I said, it rained that night. I had just gotten out of the bathroom when my sister handed me the phone.

 “Mom wants to talk to you,” she said, calmly. I nodded, and taking the phone from her, shook some drops of water from my still-wet hair.

 “Sofia? Are you with your siblings?” her voice was unreadable. I couldn’t tell whether she was worried or relaxed, because there was no tension. Nothing. I put a towel on my shoulders to keep my hair from wetting my shirt, wondering if she was just going to tell me to go to bed soon, as usual.

 “I’m walking to their room now,” I immediately went to the room across the hall, the room my sister and brother shared. I motioned for them to be quiet and sit beside me on the bed. “I’m with them right now.”

 “Darling,” my mom’s voice was steady.

 “Mhm?” I anxiously waited for her to continue. My sister and brother’s gaze never broke away from the phone.

 “He’s——-”

 Gone. She didn’t even need to say the words, yet I knew. My throat closed, and I felt the tears coming, I tried to swallow it down. Stay strong, I told myself. Stay strong for them.

 I wasn’t that strong, though.

 I burst into tears, and couldn’t stop. Worry filled my brother’s eyes, but my sister’s face held the same expression as when she had handed me the phone.

 “Just pray, okay?” I barely heard my mom speaking on the other end.

 “Okay,” I choked out, and immediately hung up. I covered my face with my hands and the sobs continued to come.  I could feel the hole in my heart starting to form and the pain seeping into my skin.

 “He’s gone,” I told my siblings, aching as I said it.

 Tears shone brightly on my brother’s cheeks. His mouth was tight and firm, trying to hold back the tears, like a brave, little, soldier boy. He lost, and a stream of fresh tears came, and he tried to wipe them all away. My sister just stared numbly, still in shock by the news. Everything seemed to be falling and crumbling around us, the air thick with disbelief and made heavier by the pounding rain. None of us knew what to say to each other, but we did what the best thing was to do at that moment. I drew them both into a tight hug, and we prayed.

 Outside the windows, the rain fell harder.

 Days later, I was lying in bed, awake, listening to music. My body was still, but my mind was reeling. I missed everything about him, from his old, wide glasses to the way he sat on his favorite chair while watching a basketball game. Memories played on and on and on and on in my mind like a movie with no end.

 My grandfather smiling.

 My grandfather picking fruit from the tree in the garden.

 My grandfather playing chess with my brother.

 My grandfather letting him win, as usual.

 My grandfather walking, slowly.

 My grandfather lying helpless on the hospital bed.

 My grandfather ——

 I burst into sobs, drawing my body into a tight curl on the bed. I realized that I would never see his quiet, loving smile or hear him say “Mmm” every time I told him I loved him again. Every teardrop I shed seemed to be a waterfall. My pillow was soaked in tears, but I didn’t care. I closed my eyes as hard as I could. Everything felt black. Empty. Hard. Lonely.

 God, it hurts so much, I cried. He’s safe in Your arms now, right? Everything should be fine, right? Lord, I need Your peace. I miss him so badly. I…

When the storm is raging all around me

You are the peace that calms my troubled sea

 The song made me cry harder. I wanted to stop. I knew crying wouldn’t bring him back. I just wanted to go to sleep and forget for a while.

When the cares of this world darken my day

You are the light that shines and shows me the way

 Lord, I want to stop crying, I bit my lip. Heal my heart, Jesus——

 Be still.  The words rang in my heart, mind, and ears.

 Lord—-

Be still.

 I stopped and obeyed. My slow exhalations seemed to come from somewhere else, and not myself. I stopped thinking and moving. I just felt.

Oh, the beauty of Your Majesty

On the cross You showed Your love for me

Beautiful Lord

Awesome and mighty

I’m captured by this love I see

Beautiful Lord

Tender and holy

Your mercy brings me to my knees

 The tears came again only, it wasn’t from missing my grandfather. An overwhelming sensation of peace followed after, and my shaking sobs slowed down to a steady breathing. The streaming tears trickled to a stop. I felt Him, and I loved Him.

 I’d finally found it, in the midst of a storm.

 Peace.

 It’s still raining now, but the rainfall is softer. I can remember him without crying anymore, because I know that He is with me always, and I know that I can find rest and comfort in Him.

 A raindrop splashes onto the ground.

 Here ends my rain story.