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