Autumn

The first day of fall is when I jump over the fences at school, rushing home without a bicycle because I love the crackling sound of leaves I step on.

The first day of fall is when I jump over the fence at home, calling for Mother to come out and see her cluttered yard. She hates raking in leaves that many. Maybe this year, she'll have Father do it.

The first day of fall is when I jump over the fence at Bessy's house, squealing with glee and playing with her under their own leafless maple.

The first day of fall is when I jump over the fence at Granny's house, running into her back door that leads to the kitchen where she makes the best of autumn rolls.

But today, the first day of fall, there is no more jumping over fences. There are only tears and goodbyes. There are huggings and kissings on the cheek. There are luggages around me, ready to be boarded onto the carriage.

Today, on the first day of fall, I am going to the city. Where fences become brick walls too high for jumping. Where leaves and maples do not grow and fall. Where tea and bread Bessy and Granny would be too far.

Today, on the first day of fall, I am what they call a growing lady. Who needs to lose all the playfulness and the naughtiness. Who needs less weight. Who needs more dreams.

How do I tell them that I am content with jumping over fences and the maple leaves?

Or do I even tell them?

Photo by: Swan Corner

Together

"The sea is not at all calm," he said as he walked by me, hands in his pockets and feet trudging sand.

"So is the wind," I breathed in as much as I could, letting the air fill my pollution-accustomed lungs.

"Are you not cold?" he eyed my less than thick, frilly dress, and equally bare feet.

"Maybe." I was not paying attention to my body temperature, to be honest.

"What will your father say if you don't come home tonight?" he couldn't keep the nervousness in his voice. I almost laughed at that not-so-manly question.

"I wouldn't have a way to know, given that I wouldn't be there. Right?" I glimpsed a sparkling on the sand not far from us. I hurried to it.

I picked it up and realized it was just some shard of a broken mirror. I turned to throw it out to the sea. As soon as the glinting piece got lost into the waves, he had come nearer. We were standing side by side, looking at the thrashing waves. There could be a storm, or maybe the wind was just having a bad day. I wondered if he was thinking about where the glass shard landed, too.

"Maybe we should just get you back home," he said after a while. He had his head hung; he always did that when he disliked what he was saying.

"No. Come, run."

I began to run, and soon he was after me. He caught up with me and held my hand. Then we ran, together. Just like what we would always do from then on.


Photo by: Aimée

Long Way Ahead

He was sleeping when she woke up. They had been on the tracks for roughly an hour. She could feel her head starting to whirl; she was never in for long roads. And so she had to lug back to sleep.

She was already asleep, for the second time, when he woke up. Her head was lolling about and he feared she'd hit the window. He collected her bobbing body and had her lean against him. He put his arm around her, to keep  her quite steady. He knew she was not in for long roads. And then he went back to sleep.

She woke again, certain she would throw up any minute. She could not move immediately and she wondered why. That's when she felt his arm around her. Silly man, she thought. His arm could just as easily sleep because of that. She gently lifted it off and went up, careful not to rouse him. She half-felt her way to the coffee cart.

He felt she was not around, so he had to wake up again--alert. Maybe she got real sick, he thought. He massaged his arm for a while, feeling the growing numbness ease. Then he got up and went to the bathroom, where he thought she could be throwing up.

She returned with two covered mugs of instant coffee. He wasn't around. She looked around and decided he might have went to the bathroom. So she sat down, looked out the window, and waited. They were along acres of trees already. She was not familiar with the place, but she sort of felt they were still far.

A few seconds more and he returned. He smiled and sighed loudly at the sight of her, a covered mug in either hand. She looked up at him, smiled, and offered one of the mugs. He took it and sat beside her. He put his arm around her again and she leaned against him. They both looked out the window, basking in the sight of green, and relaxed.

The ride was still a long way ahead.

Photo by: Agnisharman

'Til She Stops Waiting

Independence Day always finds her by the train station. She is standing, fidgeting, taking deep breaths. She is not certain what to wait for. Every surge of new passengers make her look up, half-expectant, half-hoping.

She does that even without news, maybe it comes up when she leaves the house. She does that even when rain falls, the subway has lots of covered area anyhow. And she does that even when she always goes home alone.

For how long she can wait, she does not know. But she's sure she'll be doing so for a very long time. Until, probably, she gets a letter like Suzan's got.

It came on Independence Day, too. Right before they stepped out to go to the station. Suzan used to go with her and wait all day. She waited for Suzan to finish reading. But Suzan folded the letter and said she wouldn't be coming along anymore. Suzan never went with her again.

She waits for that letter, somehow. She would until the time comes when the military head would write and make her stop waiting, too. For that day, though, and for the next Independence Days, she would be there.

Waiting for that uniform-clad man who's stopped writing to her when news has broke out that a new set of rebels are brought into the mountains. That man who's told her he'd be back. Even when, even if she stops waiting.

Photo by: Thomas Lieser

Rainbow's Disappearance

The rain was heavy enough to make anyone who wanted to go out hesitate. It was cruel enough to punish those who would attempt to sail out in the ocean. The weather news reported of a storm. The public is advised to stay indoors unless necessary. Though the weatherman sounded off for saying that, she still thought he's right.

The storm was serious in its lone sojourn.

But the rain had something with it. Something that was hers. Something definitely more important than her new boots or her old trusty umbrella. Something way more worthy than her safe abode.

But she could not leave. She could not run around under the sleet. She could not risk it.

Instead, she went the day after. And she was late. Too late.

Photo by: Thorsten Scheuermann

Flat Line

He cannot tell if this is a dream. Everything seems so real. The place, the sounds around him, even the feeling. There is something familiar with this feeling.

He walks around, on his guard. Then he laughs. Surely if this is a dream, he cannot be harmed. He'll just wake up to where he's safe. But still, something, some prick of feeling tells him he has to watch his steps.

Further and farther, he walks. He looks around, trying to remember how he's supposed to go.

When suddenly, he hears a snap. Jerking his head to where the sound comes from, he tries to glean through the darkness. Seeing nobody, he turns again to the path he's taking. Maybe just an animal, he thinks.

After quite some time, a glaring white light appeared. He rushes to it, thinking he's finally seen the end. Abruptly, though, he stops. Hang on. This is just a dream. I don't need to rush like this.

But the light is fading. And somehow, against his better knowing, he feels like he cannot lose it. So on he runs again. Faster, this time. Until he reaches it. And then he sees where the light is coming from.

About time. He reached for the white person's hand.


Somewhere in the heart of the city, inside a hospital room, the life machine beeped loudly.


Photo by: Arun Kurup

Unsent

Hi there. I'm sorry I didn't write to you yesterday. I was on the train to your parents'. You're right, it was a long ride. I fell asleep on my seat twice and still was not there when I woke up. It was almost sunset when I arrived.

They were pleased to see me, I could tell. I hoped you saw their excited faces. I felt like I'd known them for so long.

They let me sleep on your room. It's still very much like the same, they told me. They never wanted to change stuffs in here, I think. But it's kinda messy. I should ask if I can clean up a bit. You should've told them they could, even when you're not around. And yeah, there's plenty of girly feel around. Your mom decorated this, didn't she?

I also had the best dinner ever. Your mom's a great cook. And your dad an awesome host. He was so talkative, like you. They're really cool.

Your brother's coming today, I was told. He wants to meet me, too, I guess. I feel the same.

Hey, I think you missed out on a lot when you told me stuffs about your family. Like your father's a retired military man, or at least that's what he said. He said he would've wanted you to be one, too. But you didn't want to. He had to chase you all the way round the backyard with a cane! I laughed so hard while he was telling me. You're as stubborn.

I'm really glad I came, even more that I met them. Thank you so much.

Lots of love from me.


P.S.: I gave them half your ashes already. Your mother cried a lot. I'm sorry for that.


Photo by: Holly Becker

By the Bank

It was a beautiful, flowing river at that time. It was an escape for everyone who wanted to leave the suburb's constant bustling. It was an inspiration for everyone who wrote and took photos. It was a huge, wide ground for everyone who wanted to play.

For me, it was a hopeful place, and always would be.


She had to go with her aunt. Her mother was sick and no one was around to take charge. The bills were piled up and for some reason, no one could take charge of those either. The house needed cleaning. Whatever had her aunts and cousins done, it certainly was not to make her mother's life easier.

So she had to go. She told me that day when we were quietly sitting on the riverbank, waiting for the spring's sunset we've forever enjoyed. She cried, although I could not understand why. I realized then she was talking long-term.

I could not tell her not to. I could not make her stick with the previous arrangements. Somehow, I felt that would be rude. All I did was ask when she would come back. Even that, she couldn't answer definitely. But she said she'd keep me posted.

That, she never did.

Painful as it is, I could not let people know about what really happened, or what I felt was bound to happen. Or maybe I hoped. That she'd really come back in time. That things would go as planned. That we still had us.

But half a year after, I got that long-waited-for letter. She was doing fine, it said. Her mother was really sick and her aunts were really on the off side of the economy. They needed her.

In the last paragraph, she asked me--in her handwriting so fluid I knew she didn't hesitate putting down those words--to send out our apologies.

The Sunday after that, after the sermons, I asked the lay preacher to make the announcement for me. The wedding . . . is indefinitely postponed to give time to family matters. The words did not come as rude, I was thankful.

It was a beautiful, flowing river at that time. For me, it was a hopeful place, and always would be. For in there, I would forever wait.


Photo by: ViaMoi