Two Suitcases Off

Two were by the door when I came in. The house was uncharacteristically quiet. I assumed it was the end. I knew it was the end. Frankly, I was scared to get in.

He was by the fireplace, looking at the huge painting on the wall. He heaved a sigh. I could not tell if he was aware of my arrival.

Looking at him from where I was, I started to feel tears coming out my eyes. After years of silent nights, hisses, and blatant shouting, we finally reached the end. I wanted to run to him and hold him. I wanted to tell him how much he means to me--he did and still do.

But I could not. I just knew I could not.

He turned around and saw me. He looked like he wanted to cry as much as I do. But I knew he would not. Instead, he crossed the distance between us and hugged me tightly. I hugged him back, trying to tell him everything I could not with that gesture.

Then we pulled apart. And he started walking to the door.

He picked up his suitcases and, with a last longing look at me, he left.


Photo by: John Perivolaris

Cue to the Last Dance

Your cue!

She heard the assistant director's voice. Slowly, carefully, she strapped on her shoes. With a few more seconds left, she chose to be quiet. Looking around, she couldn't help remembering the very first time she came onto that stage, the nervousness, the overwhelming organized chaos of that backstage.

She was five when she told her mother she wanted to dance. Her parents were not at all enthusiastic, mainly because they thought dancing would disrupt her future. But she was persistent. The first time she danced, her parents were there. They were way too proud after that, telling everybody they knew of how graceful she moved. She could care less. She was dancing, and that's all that mattered.

On and on, she went. Places, she traveled. People, she took by awe. And fame, she caught.

Until that day someone made a run against the traffic signal. She was about to cross the street then, happy because she got another invitation to a show abroad. Then came the red car, skidding tires and all.

The next thing she knew, everything was white. Can she go? She heard her father ask someone. I'm afraid not, that someone responded. She was numb. What were they talking about?

It's time! Again, the assistant director.

Eight months ago, someone landed in a hospital for a cut on his forehead. He hit his head when his car bumped into the roadside post. When he came into the hospital, someone else was with him. He had hit that person, too, who was innocently and happily about to cross the street. He had hit that person's legs.


And today, she faces every one of you. Today, I bid goodbye my ballet shoes. I would roll my chair out of this stage, dejected and anguished. But I would forever cherish every seat you all occupied, every eye you had on my every prance. Thank you. For all the years you clapped for me.


Not able to bear the tears and sobs slowly coming, she wheeled away. She had said her piece.

Her last dance.


Photo by: Spanish Moss

Unused

The mailbox sits under the sun, pondering. It is rusted; being out of use does not suit it well. It has sat on top of its pole ever since it can remember. It has been opened before. By hands that are trembling with excitement. By hands that are rushing. By hands that are anxious.

But now, only the wind opens it. And dogs from the neighborhood; they sniff in it looking for food. For days, its hinges are loose, making the opening flap noisily until someone from the house gets irritated enough to shut it.

Why, though? Where have all the letters gone? It keeps on hearing words like 'mail', 'sent', and 'letters'. But there is nothing in it. There's no one who delivers enveloped sheets anymore. There's no one to run to it, eager.

It can only sigh. Surely, the people living in that house has found something else to receive their letters from.

It can only cry. Maybe to be broken down is better. Maybe as a simple sheet of rusted metal, it can be of better use.

It misses its friends.


Photo by: Cindy Seigle

A Perfect Time to Let Go

"Will you come?"

"Honestly, Maria. We're not exactly friends. I mean, I am your would-be husband's ex-girlfriend. And we didn't exactly separate nicely. You know that."

"Yes. I know that perfectly well. He knows that, too."

"Then why are you doing this? Why do you want me there?"

"Because every single one of our past loves will come--Emmanuel, Davies, Bryan, Jill, Pauline. You see, we want to start our new life together knowing that we have at the very least said goodbye to our past selves. We want everyone to know that we don't hold grudges against them. We want you all to be there because you were--are--parts of our lives. We owe you what we've become. And frankly, we've been this good together because of every one of you who's ever left us and told us bad things."

Then she handed me the envelope. I could not believe my eyes and my ears. That had to be the most ridiculous of reasons I had ever heard.

She turned around and walked to the door, leaving me at the counter with rags on my hands and a slightly-open mouth. Before she went out, she turned back to me and smiled.

"And besides, that would be a perfect time to let go, don't you think so?"

That was when I knew what she knew all along.

Photo by: Jimmy Cheng

A Doctor of the Mind

"And there were books, Sister! Loads and loads of them." the young boy could not help being excited at the thought of all those books.

"Can I go there often?" he pleaded.

"Maybe. If we get you a card." said Sister.

"Where can I get a card? Do I have to pay for it?" he asked.

"Maybe. We'll ask."

"Then I can go everyday? As long as I have a card?"

"Everyday? Can you do that? We live ten blocks from there. You're going to be so tired coming to and fro." Sister was worried about the boy's enthusiasm.

They said his parents were teachers. There is no doubt he's as into learning. But things changed when his mother died and his father left town. They said he was in some mental institution. Never knowing, never caring that their only son was growing.

"I can do that. I can walk that far. Or I can save the money I get from the choir and buy myself a bicycle. Like Tim's got." There was so much determination in his face.

"Why? Why do you want to do that?"

"Because I want to be a doctor, Sister. I want to be a doctor of the mind."

"Doctor . . . of the . . . mind?"

"Yes. Then I'll heal Father. They say he has a sickness of the mind. I'll find him and then I'll heal him."

Photo by: Missy

Ceramic Jar

I had always believed he'd come back. Even when all my letters kept coming back unopened. Even when I did not get birthday and Christmas greetings. Even when I had years and years worth of gifts unsent.

I never ceased hoping he'd come for me.

She was there, waiting as usual. She would wait until the last train arrives. Until the last passenger comes down. Until the platform guard would tell her nothing's coming anymore.

She was there last year. And the year before. And the many more years before that.

She was there when he went away. She was there when he promised to return. She was there when he said she can keep believing.

Five more minutes until Train 505 comes. Five more minutes, and when she doesn't see what she's waiting for, she would go teary-eyed again. Looking around, as if hoping the boy is somewhere behind those large pillars.

Three minutes . . . Two . . . One . . .

Finally, the train. She stood up, eager. She stood by the ticketing officer, that one who checks if the passengers have their tickets to get off the station. There, she would not miss what she's looking for.

"Cara?"

Some soft voice from some black-dressed woman. "You're Cara?"

"Yes? You know me?"

"Yes. Rand, he sent me. Actually, I'm with him."

"Really?"

That gleeful, gleeful voice. Then she searched. "Where is he? Is he hiding? He's always surprising me. Come out, Rand!"

The soft-voiced woman took some ceramic jar from one bag.

"Here."

She reached for it.

"He said he wanted the ashes on the sea."

Shocked. Appalled. Scared. Hurt. Then, suddenly, understanding.

"You're back. You're back."

Photo by: Ramon Bataller

Running

The young girl slid quietly behind the slightly ajar door. The shouting was growing worse, she couldn’t stand listening. She crept to the back of the house and there jumped over the low fence.

Run, she did. Run, she savored the feeling of freedom and silence.

She ran until her feet were numb. Tomorrow, they would be bruised and even blistered. But tomorrow, she would not mind them because the house would be quiet again.

At a street reasonably far, she sat on the side of the road. She would stay there for a few hours; by then, her mother would be up in her room sleeping off the anger and her father would be out in the pub drinking off the despair.

Then she would be able to sleep, before which she would pray for a happier family.

Photo by: Phil H