Sunday, November 25, 2007

Happy Birthday To Me

Rain and wind lashed at my windows, calling me.

I feel so old and so alone. Living on these mountains, I feel like the rest of my life is downhill. Unless, I stop time and stay up here, in the mists and clouds.

I had never hoped to end up like this.

When I was a small girl, I spent many afternoons playing by myself in our backyard. I'd dig up dirt, mud and pebbles tomake small houses and streets and streams. I'd climb our trees, santol, mango, lanzones, and crawl under shrubbery. I'd run around the house, around and around. I'd turn on the hose and put my thumb in the nozzle to make a spray in the sunlight, creating a small rainbow. I was utterly happy by myself.

Only because I felt loved, because I had a home, because I had nothing to worry about. Because I had no sad memories.

I celebrated my birthday last week with some friends. We had a picnic on my friend's backyard, just outside the city. We had a nice view and agreeable weather. It was great of them to make the effort. I had hoped to let the day pass by unnoticed.

I got a text message saying that one of my grade school barkada died of a heart attack. So young! I thought. I then wondered why I felt so old, if I also felt it was too early to die at my age. (Am I making sense?)

Rain and wind was still calling, so I stepped out onto the deck, into the rough weather. I was immediately drenched. I stayed outside for an hour, looking straight into the storm, shivering, cold.

What do you want from me?

Friday, November 02, 2007

Holding Her Glass Near Her Lips

She arrived with a bottle of Kahlua, as she had promised. We were going to have a Black Russian afternoon pajama party, just the two of us.

The day was nice and chilly, perfect for staying in. Skies were gray and rains came and went, whenever it felt like it. Even the weather was lazy. I had the radio on but at a low volume, just the right amount of background music.

"Pajamas?" I asked my young, new friend.

She smiled and raised her backpack. "Where can I change?"

I pointed to the guest bedroom.

She handed me the bottle. "Make the drinks."

I am still amazed at the efficiency of our conversation. We've been talking so much since we met, but I feel that we use so few words. At least, in general, in the sense that we don't chit-chat, don't waste words, don't fill the silence with chatter. We end up sharing so much more, stories, ideas, feelings, memories.

Great conversation is such a turn-on.

Later, we settled in the camel-back couch facing the bay window. She wore this big, big shirt and nothing much else. I told her that our conversations are so familiar, that it reminds me of my once-best-friend, the one I fell in love with long ago, when I was about her age.

"Are you falling for me?" she asked, holding her glass near her lips.

"That's what I mean," I said. "I love how we talk. I haven't had this in a long time. Too long."

"You didn't answer my question," she said.

"I know," I said and finished my drink. "Do you want another one?"

It was a lazy afternoon. She read my Calvin and Hobbes while massaging my feet, and I sketched her. I like drawing her cheeks, her delicate nose. It was a perfect afternoon.

News on the radio said that the weekend will bring more rain.