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