I picked up an almond from my mocha ice cream. It was 6:30 in the evening when it fell out of my mouth. It must be caused by Karen’s taunting that I can’t make a trap out of this sand mountain.
I jaw-dropped to my disdain. So, after I digged a foot-deep and covered it with newspaper, I sprinkled sand on top to conceal the hole. By the way, we half-filled it with drainage dirt.
I dusted off the almond. I don’t like it with sand coating. A step back and I fell. Stinky foot!
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She dresses for the weather. The canopy of clouds only depicts immaturity. But she is sure.. it is a lonely painting if she were to frame the world outside. As she opens the door from the darkness of her room, the mood is finalized.. She remembers her mother pinning clothes fresh from cleaning.
A curve slowly forms on her lips, she smiles.. answering mother’s idyllic glance. The breeze is the dampness of cloth and the breath of soil is another story.
She hears their pet cat purr. Grandfather is watering plants while she watches by the window. Butterflies flutter as it showers, birds sing early in the morning. Mother calls her.. mentions her name like it is a sweet and funny song. One last take, she relishes the tinge of water and earth.
She is a girl who likes to run whenever someone calls her. She never runs away. Before she even gets close to where the voice comes from, their pet dog fawns at her.
“What’s your name?” A girl with a red umbrella asks as she pats a neighborhood dog on stroll. At a distant, she does not move for the moment.. and for moments that pass by.
It begins to drizzle. She sees herself dressed for the weather and moves on.
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Originally published in happyobituary.blogspot.com on 10 February 2005 3:56 pm.
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So here, under the shower of plumerias and against the gush of the wind, I have been wandering off my mind. This morning birth was surreal.. as if the whole street was not just swept off particles but off people, too.
Just for a second, I thought I saw a little girl riding her red bicycle but as I smiled, only the ash grey asphalt had the coldest dead stare. Damp from the early six o’ clock dew.. it reminded me of tears.
I caught a falling flower and tuck it between the pages of a book. A useless bookmark.. one which will only stationarily reside in those significant part.
The part where I bought a bouquet of flowers and invited everyone to my funeral.
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Originally published in happyobituary.blogspot.com on 9 February 2005 2:35 pm.
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I took off to this beach in Mindanao because I was too tired of working and being some old bummer (or loser, if you want to suggest) at the same time.
Medium palm trees were the linings instead of house walls. The breeze was like those old afternoon movies that made you feel so low. But this time, it made me relax for the first time.. in a different way, though.
I planned to live here in this beach house for the rest of my life. I can see myself turning reddish, and my hair in grey tone.. holding some surfboard in my right hand.
And a golden retriever named Ulan greeted me everyday.. every sunny and rainy day.
(After reading ‘The Catcher In The Rye’)
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It begins to rain. A gentle pour of heaven’s tears. Of joy.. with its smile, the rainbow in the horizon seems an arm’s reach.
She waits in the overpass.
He emerges from the last step of that drenched pebble stairs. The first sight she has is from the faint puddle. That bright yellow daisy, that kindred smile.. lively in the pot, beaming at her.
Both hearts with solid foundation melt. A facet of the love story amidst the rush of everything. And if someone speaks of time unstoppable,
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Originally published in happyobituary.blogspot.com.
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I was locked to read your eyes like old Latin prayer book. Only the punctuations I have understood, and the blessing of your apparition. Only this pillow set us apart like mountain that bid only signals to commune. But I was able to caress your hand.
How time crawled as it backwardly learned unlike a baby. The day brightened, it shed. We were still.. unmoving position of mind game dancing. You were the only one playing.
The creases your head and hair made were still on my pillow. The fresh fossils that they were, I straightened with my indifferent hands. Your tear-stain scent exhibited garland disremembered. Have you been weeping during your sleep or mine?
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Originally published in happyobituary.blogspot.com.
