Angel

The lights in your house are finally out. I look at my watch, it says 8:37. I’m so glad that the people taking care of you are country folk. They get up early, they go to bed early. I tap my companion’s shoulder and cross the street to your front door. I take out my key and gently unlock the heavy carved door of the bungalow where you live.

I take a left to the corridor where the bedrooms are. Yours is painted stark white, with Spartan furnishings. I kept it that way because I don’t want you to feel at home in here, in this suburb in this poor country.

I place secondhand books in your shelf, more of them about British folklore and King Arthur’s knights. You seemed to enjoy reading them at the library.

My companion is a pediatrician, he comes with me every week to inject you with a sedative and refill your vitamins because they spend your medicine money on gambling.

I was at your twelfth birthday at the modest restaurant where you and your friends ate your favorite fried chicken, spaghetti and chocolate cake. You looked so happy even if not everyone brought you a present.

I rummage through your schoolbag and place a new bug in its pocket. The old one broke when you accidentally dropped the bag in your classroom earlier today. You hate it when you are a bit clumsy because your foster mother does not tolerate it in her household.

I put new batteries in your luminous green alarm clock. But it’s not like you need it. You sleep and wake up like clockwork even on weekends it scares me. Sometimes because you are so efficient with your movements and you have this uncanny sense of time, I imagine you to be less human and more automaton.

I even count the number of times I see you smile when you are with your friends and it is not often. It makes me sad because you used to be spontaneous and jolly. I could not figure out what changed in the year that I have been away.

You also started having nightmares and talking in your sleep, which is why I asked a doctor on the other side of town to give you something to calm you down.

You don’t know this but there are bodyguards who walk behind you and before you whenever you are outdoors.

You are the first person who made me resent my money and power, and my position in society. I know that had things been different, had my family been other than what it is, I’d have had the courage to bring you up on my own, even as a single father. I wouldn’t have been so afraid that the interracial relationship that brought you to being would be discovered.

But I was afraid and I will now admit I was a coward for ever considering that I should give you up, as I did.

And now I regret the decision that landed you in the hands of uncouth folk who cannot appreciate your intellectual inclinations and your sweet nature, your forgiving soul.

And my new fear is that you, with your strong sense of duty, will hate me if you knew that I am the one responsible for you and yet I chose to turn my back on you when it mattered the most.

Daisy

I saw her in front of the kitchen window. She was crying again as she was washing the dishes in the sink.

It happens a lot. I’ve never seen Daisy not cry on weekends and summers when we didn’t have school.

It wasn’t that her family was dysfunctional. Mr. and Mrs. Medina are among the kindest people I have ever met. They have two other sons, Donald and Dean. Dean is in my grade and I know him a little. He’s a great kid. You could tell he’s nice not just because his family has money, but that his parents brought him up well.

Daisy is the eldest. She doesn’t attend regular school nowadays. Sometimes I would see her with her mother in their garden going over books. Or a tutor would give her exams at the country club periodically.

I asked Dean about Daisy but he doesn’t like talking about his sister. Maybe he doesn’t want to.

I’ve seen it happen not less than five times. Sometimes Daisy would start throwing things around the house and she’d yell at her parents. Then a closed van would pull up and take her someplace I didn’t know.

When she comes back, she’s a different person. She’d stare into space and be all quiet.

One day I was riding my bike home from school and I saw Daisy lying on the lawn. She was listening to her iPod, earphones in her ears, her eyes closed. What was wrong with this picture? She was frothing at the mouth.

Alarmed, I called out to my Mom. She called the hospital.

Daisy ingested insecticide that day. I never saw her again after that.

Corn Star

He left his night light on in the bedroom. He put on his tone on tone blue bathrobe and his lambskin lined napa leather bedroom slippers.

She was sleeping soundly on the bed. He suspected she was stoned last night when they hooked up at Hemingway’s. She lay face down, her long mane of blonde hair cascading beautifully on her smooth bare back.

He was going to prepare his red wine adobo, famous among his friends for its stick to the bones flavor and the whimsical stewed grapes he uses as garnish.

He only had vague memories of last night. He was getting sloshed at the bar to celebrate his divorce. It took him three years to extricate himself from his ex-wife. They couldn’t agree on how to split his inheritance after they parted ways. He promised himself he would demand a prenup next time he gets hitched. If he gets hitched again.

He was going to wake her up, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember her name. He peeked into his bedroom and was happy to see her awake.

She was covering her mouth and frantically rummaging through the sheets.

In the afternoon light her wrinkles were more obvious than he wanted them to be. Her blonde locks were thinning in places.

“Anything wrong?” he asked.

“I can’t seem to find my dentures,” she said, showing blackened bicuspids. They were all the teeth she had.

He went straight into the kitchen and dumped his special adobo into the garbage bin. He put on tan chinos and a white polo shirt.

“Okay. I have an errand to run. Just let yourself out okay? Bye.”

He didn’t wait for her reply.

Madamn/madman

It wasn’t that her steak was not medium rare as she directed the maitre’d who had to take her order because it was a full house tonight.

Her conniption was caused by her husband's philandering and this was merely the last straw.

At least, that’s what she wanted to believe.

That was why she poured the 1,000 euro per bottle aperitif on the poor server's head.

She wasn’t happy with that.

She set him ablaze with her platinum Zippo lighter.

If truth be told, she snuffed a bit of cocaine before her date night with her
husband.

Because she was miserable.

And none of the material trappings she acquired ever made her happy.

The more she had, the more trapped she felt.

She wanted to escape.

No, she needed to escape.

But where?

They had kids and her husband didn’t believe in divorce.

She’d be damned if she would waste her life with the brainless, albeit wealthy
nincompoop she married.

Then again, maybe she wouldn’t.

/Interlude/

It’s almost three a.m. and I am in my office threading beads for jewelry for my friend’s wedding.

The radio is on at a muted volume, providing a soothing background to my labor. My husband is sitting in front of me in his swivel chair reading the morning papers from his tablet computer. I watch him during intervals of threading, surprised that he could still take my breath away after all these years of being together.

He looks up to smile at me. I stand up, stop my beading and stand behind him, rubbing his shoulders.

This is an unusually early start for us. I whisper, “I’m so glad we worked out.”

He kisses me, his right hand creeping up beneath my silk robe.

Then he sits me on the molave table, standing in between my bent legs.

“Wanna finish this in the bedroom?” he inquires.

“Bedroom? What’s wrong with the office?” I ask.

Catharsis

I hope for his sake this was not another one of his pranks.

I cried earlier that day because I saw him kissing another man.

It hurt.

I couldn’t tell you how much it hurt except that it felt like my soul was being squeezed out of my body.

It even came to a point when I stopped fighting him every time something like this happened.

I would ask him, are you gay?

He would say he’s not when clearly he is.


I put up with his crap since we were in college.

I think it felt like I owed him something for awakening me to the wonders of being in a relationship.

But when he came back from Europe he changed.

Perhaps he was like a tiger that got its first taste of blood and never looked back.

He got a taste of men in Europe and now he can’t kick the habit.

Sometimes I ask him, why do you stay with me?

He would answer, “I love you more than I could ever love anyone.”

And that would hurt even more because we both know it’s a big fat lie.

We even came to the point where we planned to get married.

He’d bug me about our plans every day.

But it didn’t feel right, this planning to be with him for the rest of my life.

He was incapable of fidelity, but that was the deal breaker for me.

One day I gathered up enough courage to break up with him.

I spoke with him, was candid about everything that bothered me about being with him.

He told me I can’t leave him, can’t just throw away all that time we were together.

I told him, it’s over.

There’s nothing he can say to change my mind.

He threw a hissy fit.

He was always such a drama queen.

I said goodbye.

I changed numbers and deleted mutual friends from my contacts list.

I didn’t want to see him ever again.

But I did see him again, a few years later.

It was a surprise, him not being able to evoke any emotion in me.

I was free.

Confession

I’m a good listener, I told him.

Still, there was apprehension in his face. I asked: do you really believe in Confession? This could all be between God and you, I assured him. Whatever you believe would be just fine.

We were sitting face to face, knees touching.

He is a handsome man with fine features and kind eyes and neat hair. My heart melted just witnessing the agony in his face. I reached out to touch his shoulder. He caught my hand and held my palm to his cheek. Tears rolled down our eyes.

It was the first time I’ve seen him in all my years the first female pastor of my Protestant church here in this city. But something about him felt familiar, as if I knew him in a past life.

“Would it be so weird if I asked you to marry me now?” he asked in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

Then he poured it out, how he stalked me in the past year after attending a service I presided over in his side of town. He said he’d been burned badly by dating and didn’t want to commit until he was sure he wanted to be in a relationship with another woman.

I laughed, wiping my tears as he proceeded with his story with much uncertainty. By rights I should be mad but he felt so real, it felt like this was real I couldn’t get up enough energy to get mad at him.

“Don’t you think marriage would be jumping the gun a bit? Don’t I get a chance to know you as well?” I asked half-jokingly. It was scary that I did want to marry him then and there!

Gratis et Amore

I laughed like a hyena, slowly becoming unaware of the mania taking over my brain.

In a few minutes they will shoot me in this dense forest somewhere in the South Pacific.

I always had a death wish, which is why I became an intelligence agent of this government bureau that went after international drug lords.

I’ve been meaning to get caught if only because it would translate to death—slow and torturous it may be—but death all the same.

They took the sack off my head.

I came face to face with my nemesis, the largest drug dealer in the West Coast of the United States.

Then he did an improbable thing.

Instead of slitting my throat with his knife, he cut the hemp ropes that bound my wrists and ankles.

“Why do you want to die?”

I was flummoxed.

How did he know?

“Why do you want to die?”

The question was asked firmer this time.

“You’re way too good to be caught by my men; you let them catch you because you knew you would die.”

”That’s none of your business. Just get it over with. You got me, why do you ask such stupid questions?”

He pulled a gun from a holster that rested on his left side.

He pulled me against him, the back of my skull kissing his face.

He aimed the gun at my forehead, where the bullet was sure to go through my skull to his.

It scared the hell out of me.

“Wait,” I exclaimed.

“Why do you want to die,” I asked.

“If you don’t tell me your reason, I won’t. What does it matter anyway? We’ve been chasing death long enough.”

“I was kidnapped and held prisoner for two years and used as a sex slave. After I was rescued both my parents died in a freak accident. Their car exploded because of faulty wiring. I couldn’t bring myself to come in contact with other people after that.”

“The socialists, they pillaged our village. My mother and sister were raped and tortured and killed before my eyes. I was nine at that time.”

We both said: “You had it worse.”

“I’ll put you on a plane to California tomorrow. Find another job. I think I’ll update my resume too,” the drug lord said.

I said: “I hope I never cross paths with you again. It would be more gratitude than I can handle.”

“Same, same.”

The Kill

“You’re not a prize, this was not a game. I was not in it for the kill.” This was what I wanted to hear from him after the phone call from Ari. But his lips were forming different words.

“I’m sorry,” he hung his head. “I knew who you were from the beginning. It was my intention to make you fall in love so I can win a bet.”

He couldn’t look me in the eye. And I couldn’t stop shaking.

I stared at my mobile phone, willing it to disappear, willing to erase my earlier conversation with my best friend Ari. I laughed but sobs were coming out of my mouth. I couldn’t tell him to get out. This was half his home after all.

I flushed at my own arrogance for believing I beat society at its own game.

I was foolish, I know that now, to believe someone wouldn’t recognize my face, which even devoid of make -up still closely resembled the glamour shots on the cover of every magazine imaginable. Why wouldn’t I be a media darling? I’m thirty-something, not bad looking, with a personality that could charm birds off the trees and the first trillionaire in the history of mankind.

It was a curse, making that fortune. From the moment the news hit media, my life wasn’t the same anymore. Not even my trillions could turn back time and restore my anonymity. I hated it.

I knew Joseph, the guy who bet on my heart, through a friend of a friend. He feigned ignorance of my identity through the whole affair and now I just wish the earth would split and swallow him.

I heard of them—social climbers—and held them as much in contempt as any one of their prey. I arranged my world so I wouldn’t have to deal with them. Maybe it was just that Joseph’s group was more cunning than the average pack. I don’t actually know. I don’t want an investigation, although I know that would be inevitable during the divorce proceedings. It was a good thing I still had enough sense to make him sign a prenup.

“So, who’s gonna leave, you or me?” I asked him after my sobs have subsided.

“I’ll pack,” he said to the floor meekly.

“Before you go,” I held him by the shoulders. When he was the right distance, I let go of a left hook, which made sharp contact with his jaw. He flinched.

“For being an uncouth lout,” I said. “And thank your lucky stars that’s all you’ll get from me.”

I walked out of our bedroom. I called my secretary and asked to be booked at the Shangri-la while I gathered my wits.

Last Two Minutes

It wasn’t difficult, splitting my wrist veins. I bought the heaviest duty cutter I could find and my plan worked. It’s going to be alright.

I did not make the trip to the bed from the bathroom. I stumbled on my fuzzy yellow bunny slipper and lay face down on the parquet floor, one arm extended over my head. I watched the blood ooze from my wrist, every precious ounce of life flowing out of my body.

She came through the door, her ginger mane neatly groomed. She stared at me silently, as if asking, “What the heck have you done?”

She spoke to me in her one word language, belting out an exasperated “Meoooooow” in my general direction.

She licked the blood on the floor, then fled, revolted by its iron taste.

I closed my eyes and breathed my last, embraced by the forgetfulness of death.

If you ask me

The dog’s barking woke her from where she slept in her 1960s style bungalow. But it was the door chime that brought her to full consciousness. He was at her gate at 2:03 am. She threw on her robe and hurried to the front door, careful not to make a noise.

The silver in his hair reflected the full moon. His spectacles were in his breast pocket. His eyes were clear and reflected his full consciousness. But he reeked of alcohol and his speech was slurred.

“I assssked to be dropped off here,” he said, resting his head on her shoulder. The posture must’ve been uncomfortable for him for he was a full foot taller than her.

“I can see that. Come in,” she said cradling his head in her small hands and gently guiding him into the living room. She sat him on the couch and would’ve put his feet on the ottoman and taken off his shoes, but he held her shoulders fast and held her close to him. He inhaled the smell of her neck and nibbled on her ear. Then he rained kisses on the juncture where her neck met her shoulders.

His actions didn’t shock her at all.

They have been dating for six months and contrary to the consensus of the men she dated in the past, she wasn’t a cold fish. Not with him. She gave kiss for kiss, hug for hug, and everything that followed thereafter between a hot blooded male and female. But they haven’t fully consummated their relationship. Not yet, maybe because of an unspoken agreement that they would wait until she was ready.

Tonight she was.

She held him firmly by the shoulders his face one foot away from hers. She could not hold back the smile that touched her lips, which was threatening to turn into a full blown laugh.

“You’re not drunk,” it was a statement.

He looked her in the eye. “No.”

They were in such a hurry to get undressed he forgot to take off his socks. She only realized this while they lay spent in her English four poster queen sized bed. She smiled while she ran her hands through his hair, relishing his sleeping face. She is sure, they will laugh about it in the morning.

Tears in the Night

Long into the night
The heavens cried
The earth caught every tear
I cried myself to sleep
Yet again
The tears on my pillow
I cannot bargain
For the cold comfort
Of a friend’s arms

It might be
That this is the way
It has to be
That when you are cruel
It will be me who weeps
When you feel insecure
Because I refuse obedience
And assert my side
Of the story

It might be that the sun
Cries too
When the night is cruel
And everybody
Is as fragile as a glass heart

I cried long into the night
Well into the morning
For sorrow from the
Certainty
That the only side
You’ll ever take is yours
Til the very end
All you will ever see
Is the view from your low
Perch
Unable to put yourself
In another’s shoes
I have to accept
That’s all you’ll
Ever be

Listening to Mr. Sumner
On this rainy morning
My tears falling
My heart heavy
It should be precious
This feeling
Because it needs to be rare
It paralyzes
And I have to live
You need a licence
For your carelessness
For your childishness
An irony, really
When you are more sixty
Than sixteen.

Half-blood

Time flies when the fun
Is over
And the rain has washed
What’s left
Of levity
Into the parlor we go
For games with lives
At stake
To bridge mere mediocrity
With the veneer
Of excellence

To thrive like an
Aristocrat
When all I am
Is a half blood commoner
The father the prince
Of laughingstocks
With a marm for a mistress
A mother the teacher
More noble
Than the clan she refused
To join

To be where you are
A desire gnawing
At my very heart
Flooding the gates
Of reserve
Making a wanton wench
Of a prudent maid

To beat you at this game
Of who loves who
More
And be the slave of the
Merchant of hope
Descended from Basque
Will you reconcile the heat
In your blood
With my cold English heart
Are we forever to be at odds
When the West has already
Met the East
In us?

Ode to the Impeccable

I am becoming
Slowly but surely
You

A nameless form
In December born
Slowly but surely
I reflect
The soul in your eyes

Truly and surely
Surer than the tides’
Obedience to the moon
I follow
In the footprints you leave
In a life well lived

The comfort
When I cried
Was not in your arms
But in the admonition
To be strong

The lesson
When I doubted
Was not in the sermon
But in the certainty
Of faith in your heart

The inheritance
From your toils
Is not the gold
But the respect
For the value you put
In my life

How often
Does it happen
That the mold that makes you
Is impeccable
Unimpeachable

Not often, I guess
For you, my mother
Walk this earth
But once.

The Science of Free

They laugh
Who do not understand
The science of insanity
Forgetting your name
Losing your marbles
Or just losing it

In my universe
I have lost it
Once or twice
Not more than ten times
And I was free

And they who cared
Cared more than they
Should have
And they who did not care
Laughed a little too much

After my trip
To crazy town
I had to come back
To being a sane clown
How to do that
They left me no clue
So there was nothing
More to do
Than go back to being
A scientist in a universe
Where there are no marbles

And after I counted to three
Once again, I was free.

Guhit ng Alaala

Dito napadpad mga luha
Ng iyong dalamhati
Nabasa ko sa kanilang
Mga patak
Lumbay na iyong bitbit

Bakit di pawalan
Pasanin na di kailangan
Mga mata mo
Iginuhit ng Maykapal
Para humalakhak
Magsaya at matuwa

Buhay na malupit
Di kailangan
Pag-alinlanganan
Lahat may dahilan
Pati hagupit ng pait
At kalupitan ng
Magulang na di ka
Kailanman nakilala

Dito nais kong ibalik sa iyo
Suklian ang luha
Ng ngiti
Kung maipapaabot ko sa iyo
Mensahe ng mga bahaghari
Kapayapaan mula kay Bathala
Bakit hindi

Dito sa lupa
Iguguhit kong muli ang iyong
Tadhana
Makilala ka
Ibigin, ipagpugay
Dito ibubulong ko sa iyo
Di ka malilimutan kalianman.

Bihag

Nawa’y mabihag
Sa pagtakas
Itong bilanggo ng kahapon
Bitag ng nakaraan
Hayaang humagpos
Upang mapalaya
Ang mamamayan
Ng mga ikinukubling lihim

Nawa’y lisanin natin
Ang pulo ng pagkukunwari
Bahaginan itong kaluluwang
Nagsusumamo ng kaunting
Pag-amo at pagtangkilik
Sa poong sinamba ng sandaang dipang
Kapal ng mga tagahanga

Nawa’y lumiban
Sa pagpupunyagi
Mga huwad na panginoon
Kung babasbasan ng dugo
Mga alay na hinugot sa ugat
Ng dalamhati

Pakiwari’y salat sa yabong
Mga usbong ng digmaan
Sa paglipas ng panahon
Ako’y lumuhod
Isa pa ring bilanggo
Kalayaan di matanaw
Isa pa ring sumasamba
Sa huwad na hangarin
Isa pa ring naghihintay
Sa iyong pagdating.

Rivers

I asked this question of myself maybe a million times before. How do I go on?

Even before you left, it has been at the back of my mind. My feelings were perhaps a portent of your leaving. Somehow, despite all the happiness together, I knew what we had was too good to last.

You had one foot out the door all this time. I did everything, gave it all I got and still I wasn’t able to rouse you from your half-heartedness.

The dread spread through my heart like a nameless fear, one I was afraid of.

Yet here I am, ready to pick up the pieces and start anew.

I found a lot of my fears were unfounded. Life goes on without you. The trees grew and the flowers bloomed and the river continues to flow. Life goes on.

At least, that’s what I tell myself. I thought I would die if you left. I didn’t, but I did. Part of me died when you left yet a part of me still lives. It is maddening to be trapped in this limbo of a half life, going through the motions of living but not really wanting to.

I couldn’t imagine how much space you needed to be your own person until you left.

I could say the same of me. Things are changing so fast and yet there are some that remain the same.

What scares me most is that this wouldn’t change, this sorrow, this mourning, this sense of loss. And I would be changing, moving on to new relationships, new friendships, and new interests and still be dead inside.

I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want to be the living dead.

This is the question: do I want to be all dead, or all alive?

The answer may seem obvious as I contemplate this bottle of 120 Valiums in my hand. That I should be considering it is a dead giveaway, pun intended.

But.

I just want respite, a few days of not thinking about the disaster that was us.
I want to be Sleeping Beauty in that I want to sleep until the right Prince finds me. But life is not a fairy tale. God is not a Brother Grimm.

So .

I won’t sleep. I choose to be all alive. I will throw away your memories and never look back. Because nobody deserves to die after every chapter of their life ends. I will live through to my happy ending. I’ll show you.

I’ll show you.

Anna and Simon (in single sentence paragraphs)

He was munching on a pretzel when he choked on it.

She was sitting on a nearby corner table at the café.

She gave him the Heimlich.

He thanked her and invited her to lunch at the nearby hotel.

She declined.

He was undeterred.

She was insistent she need not be thanked.

They walked out of the coffee shop together in a friendly argument over why they should have lunch together.

They parted at the corner of 29th and 6th Streets.

He called his father who was an intelligence agent.

She gave him a false name.

She did not want him to find her.

She did not want anything to do with any man.

Her sister died from her husband’s beatings.

She was afraid.

He found her.

She never thought he would.

They had coffee one afternoon.

He asked her where she learned the Heimlich.

She said she was a nursing aide at a nearby hospital.

He thought that was great.

He was a boat builder himself.

He bought her a bunch of yellow tulips.

She said yes to lunch.

Poison

You are the poison
That took me beyond strong
When you pushed me
To reason
A losing battle
The lost cause
That was my pride

Your addiction
To being needed
Fueled my independence
The need to not need
When sanity is perched
Precariously
In your cruel hands

I was right
More times than I could count
But you made it seem wrong
To be right
I learned not to fight
When justice
Resides
In your fickle mind

I should be mad
There should be
Righteous indignation
But as I see you now
I know
That your power over me
Was the power I gave you

There is no acrimony here
As I recover that power
Because if not for you
I would not be who I am
And who I am is strong
And resilient
Equal to any storm

From your twisted regime
I learned to bend
So no matter the outcome
I might be thanking you
Until the end.

Seven

At seven
The world stops
I start to care
For things that do not
Matter

Inside my mind
I am a prisoner
Of prejudice
Prejudged by a jury
Who are not my
Peers

Inside my heart
At seven
The daggers pierce
Whence there was peace
Comes now a war
Terrible for its crimes
The murder of innocence
And the triumph
Of strife

Who was the God on the
Throne
At seven
When we pleaded
For the preservation
Of our way of life
Begged
Mea culpa, mea culpa
Mercy on the weak

But did they listen
At seven

At seven the world starts
And I stop caring
For the fancy promises
Of this fickle world

Only at seven
I see the eternity
Of evil
Where sorrow has made
Cowards
Of the brave
And the strong
No longer choose to see
The infirm

At seven.

Paanyaya

Lisanin mo minsan
Ang bait na kumukubkob
Sa iyong kamalayan
Maglakad ka sa dako
Ng walang dahilan
Dahil dito ako naroroon
Dito tuloy ang pag-inog ng mundo
Malaya sa makapangyarihan
Masarap ang pusyaw ng kalayaang
Humahalik sa pisngi ng pagkatao

Makipag-ulayaw ka minsan
Sa itinuturing na baliw
Walang karanasan sa aliw
At alindog ng mundong
Mapanlinlang

Halika isayaw mo ako
Sa ilalim ng sikat ng buwan
Tawanan ang mga tala
Na nag-aanyayang mabilang
Dito sa mundo ng walang
Kapararakan
Halika, hanapin ang iyong
Kapayapaan.

Advent

These hands have tried
And failed
To touch God in a certain way
In the dark there was joy
A flimsy spark
In the underwhelming
Sabotage of a life
Spent like a game of Solitaire

You came along
And the chance to touch God
Came along
Again
A replay of a terrible movie
In a deluded mind
Filled with fantasies of
Ambition
Overcome by fear

What was I to know
From your name
The syllabic equivalent
Of lovemaking at dawn

Where was I to hide
From the gaze that
Closes wounds
And opens minds
Lost forever to demons
Unknown

The violins play
The death march of my resistance
You who have foretold
My fall
Will catch me
And I will surrender
As the leaves
Succumb
To Autumn.

Breakfast in Bed

It’s easy. All you have to do is make coffee. And don’t forget the freshly squeezed orange juice. And the bacon, eggs and toast. Bring the breakfast tray upstairs to her bedroom. Fix your face. She does so hate sombre faces. She hates it when she thinks people are sad around her or feel pity for her.

Knock lightly on her door. Whisper: “Mum? I brought you breakfast.”

Dodge the flying hairbrush. Or ignore the pain of the words, “You? What the hell are you doing here? I told you to go away. I don’t want anything to do with you. Can’t you get that through that thick skull of yours?”

Pretend chirpy cheer as you put down the tray on the dresser. “Well, there isn’t anything we can do about that for the moment is there. Best we eat our breakfast so we can take our medication, okay? Doctor’s coming any moment now to check up on you.”

Hasten to the kitchen and let the sobs out. Cry. Cry. Let it all out. Because this is not the first time your mother hit rock bottom and threatened to kill herself. This is not the first time in your seventeen years that you have seen her go on a downward spiral. This is not the first time the rug was pulled from under your feet. Certainly, this is not the first time you had to rely on your own strength to pull your mother through. Don’t worry, this is another time you’ll make it. Repeat that to yourself.

Open the door for Dr. Cooper. Let her hug comfort you. Tell her about the death of your mother’s best friend and how she went downhill from there. Accept her invitation to lunch. She has been like a second mother to you since your parents explained your Mom’s condition to you on your thirteenth birthday.

Breathe and let the tears all out. Say “Hi, Mom! Dr. Cooper’s here. She wants you to take a vacation,” even when you know she’ll need to go back to the asylum until her suicidality subsides.

Pack Mom’s bags. Drive over to your Dad’s grave after making the trip to the hospital.

And you know what, when you tell your Dad, “Wish you were here,” he can actually hear you.

Pait

Paano malalaman
Ang haplos ng tamis
Sa mga labing uhaw
Kung pait ay di pangkaraniwan
Di dumadampi
Sa unos ng pagsambit

Ika’y hangad
At pait ay pangkaraniwan
Kaibigang matalik
Ng pusong di pa natuto
Sa pagsukob ng sakit at hapdi

Ika’y hangad
Isang banyaga
Sa bayan ng mga umiibig
Ng mga banyaga

Sino ka na dumalaw
Sa dapithapon ng pagtatangi
Ito nga
Ikaw nga ay itinatangi
Ngunit ang bagay na ito
Sa iyo’y kubli

Ika’y hangad
Banyaga sa panlasa
Kakambal ng tamis
Sa mundo ng pait
Sa pagbukadkad ng araw
Sana ika’y hahanapin
Sa halip na luha
Tuwa ang iyong bitbit.

Courtship

He was Stakhanovite in his dedication to this cause, the winning over of her hand.

To him she was the most perfect angel who walked this earth: she seemed benevolent and generous and kind hearted.

He made his fortune trading the grains produced in this bucolic country for radios and televisions when he was perhaps her age. Back then he had no interest in women, only in making his bank account even fatter. She changed his mind so late in the game; he is old enough to be her father.

But what does it matter?

She moved into this part of the world with her widowed mother and young daughter. She herself was a widow, because the war with the socialists was long and tragic and claimed the lives of a lot of family men.

He was spared the wrath of war because he was an economic advisor, something that brought him a tinge of embarrassment. He was able bodied and at the prime of his life but he was not fighting in the front line. He was here, in the comfort of his home away from the shrapnel and the missiles and the bombs.

He has never spoken to her; she does not know what he looks like. But every day, for the past two years he sent her missives of his longing for her. He never sent gifts, although he very well could, because he wanted to be loved for himself.

She had a small enterprise, selling lace and ribbons to the ladies of the country, which thrived without his help. But he helped her anyway, sending hordes of visitors on their way to her shoppe during lulls in negotiations or meetings.

He bumped into her once, at the market. He simply stared into her eyes, the frog in his throat keeping him from speaking.

He could have very well been Stakhanov himself in trying to win her heart.

But one day, he woke up and she was gone. He heard her daughter drowned in the well. And it broke her heart so she couldn’t bear to live with the memories this country brought her of her daughter. She intended to stay with the parson at the next country.

He hastened to be at her side that very same day. But when he arrived she herself had expired, having taken hemlock to ease her broken heart.

He was in such pain; he never spoke a word again for the rest of his life.

God's House

It is said that it is better heard from the person herself, the story, how it really went.

But I was in the dark for a long time, so this story is not what I would call mine.

My husband is gay, I knew it before he did, I just never knew the things he did with how he was until it is too late. I am HIV positive and the virus will become AIDS in a few months. My body is giving out and I can’t do anything to stop it.

Today is my husband, Johnson’s funeral. He was a practicing homosexual, unbeknownst to me. I have nothing against it, I just wish he left me out of it.

They say you can’t die of AIDS anymore, not in this day and age, but I am among the few who are not lucky enough to respond to treatment. There are a number of us who’ve been left out because people thought AIDs is no longer a public health threat.

But it is. I exhausted my insurance and my life savings trying to get better. When I die I will be buried in a pauper’s grave because all I have left is the shirt on my back and grocery coupons to get me by.

I heard it said once that HIV is God’s way of cleaning house. That He sent it to the human race to wipe out homosexuals. I cried when I heard that, because I was diagnosed at that time and I wasn’t homosexual. I was an accomplished woman, a loving wife and mother, someone society would be proud of.

But my dreams went kaput because the man I trusted wasn’t totally honest with me. He treated my trust like a trivial toy, something that can be assigned value or denigrated without thought for the person who bequeathed it.

Upon his death, I learned he had twelve affairs behind my back in the five years we were married. I dread to know the number of his one night stands.

So am I part of the scum God wants to be rid of by letting HIV infect the human race?

I don’t want to think so. I believe in the benevolence of God. I believe I am the collateral damage of a person’s bad choices. I just wish Johnson was honest with himself, but most of all me. Had he been so, I don’t think he would’ve needed to sneak behind my back and tell me lies, but most of all pull the wool over my eyes so that I wasn’t able to make informed choices for myself.

I wish he was honest about what he wanted in his personal and sex lives. I wish he was man enough to admit that monogamy bored him, that he wanted variety so at least he’d have found likeminded people, people who don’t mind risking their entire lives for a few minutes of sexual pleasure. I wish he didn’t have to involve the sanctity of marriage and the security and health of other people in his twisted decisions.

Had he been up front about what he really wanted, I wouldn’t be in the poor house unable to take care of my three children, who will be orphaned within the year.

I don’t believe, as I die, that God is cleaning house. I am dying because a man was too selfish to accept how different he is from other people and was too much of a coward to admit this difference.

A myth

In the sorrow of solitude
I write invisible letters
Send them through the sea
Wait for the sun to burn
Infinity into a capsule
Held captive by these
Lonely hands

Imagine my breath
Upon your breath
Building enigmas
And conundrums
With hands intertwined

You are never mine
As long as I am yours
This belonging
A one way street
A cul-de-sac
A dead end
A flower in my hair
Fed by fires
Too weak to consume
Your spirit
A portent of heaven
My tongue
The staff to your serpent

It is Biblical
The way this love is pure
Untouched by ego
Fortified by desire
When will you be mine
The stars dared to answer
I dared not listen.

Wonder

It would’ve been better had she heard it from me.

Joanna’s death, it was unexpected but it was no surprise for those of us who knew her.

She suffered from liver cirrhosis because she was an alcoholic, she had her first drink at age five and never looked back. It was a crazy life but nobody told her so, and if somebody did I doubt if she would’ve listened.

I was her cleaning lady. It broke my heart to see her life so cluttered with the unnecessary pain she brought upon herself, all the while unable to perceive her own brilliance.

Joanna’s parents died young and they left her an estate that though modest, provided adequately for her modest needs. Unfortunately alcohol was a huge part of it. She’d have toast with gin and tonic at breakfast at age nineteen, the year I started working for her, and end her day with vodka. There was a lot of wine and rum and whiskey in between.

She did not listen, never listened to anyone. Maybe that was her problem.

During her lucid moments she scribbled, scribbled a lot. And she wrote good shit.

One day while I was cleaning her townhouse, Joanna’s accountant came knocking. He was alarmed by the rate she was burning away her modest fortune. He asked me if I knew if Joanna knew how to make a living. I told him she wrote in the times she wasn’t drinking. I gave him the notebooks that I organized according to date. The accountant said he knew a book editor, he could show her Joanna’s work.

By the time she was thirty, Joanna was a millionaire many times over. Only I never told her for fear that she might use her money for her further descent into depravity. Some of her work was turned into movies and plays and she got invitations to join the glitterati in their lavish parties.

I never passed them on. As she was, Joanna was already a handful. I did not want to imagine how she would be with bad influences in her life.

At 43, she kicked the bucket. I found her in the living room clutching a gallon bottle of gin in her death. I wonder now, if she knew people admired her work, would it have made a difference to her? If she knew just how much her mind was appreciated, would it have given her a sense of purpose? Would she have found her direction?

And I wonder: should it have been me who had the courage to help her find out?

I guess I’ll never know.

Pit

I get the heebie jeebies just thinking about it.

Eating a mango pit, imagining its rough fibre on my tongue is enough to make me pee in fear. But I have to because I want to impress this boy from the poor side of town.

His mother is what is euphemistically referred to as a “cultural dancer” who works in Japan, his Dad is a married Japanese auto executive who doesn’t want to acknowledge him because it would cost a pretty penny to pay for his upkeep.

His mom was in Japan that summer. I met him through the boys in the neighborhood that I play basketball with in the afternoons. Some of them were his schoolmates.

My Dad brought home sweet mangoes that he buys from an export firm where we supply T-shirts manufactured in our factory. Yuji (that’s the boy’s name) thought it abominable to leave out the pit in the consumption of the mango.

So I will eat the pit of my mango, even if it kills me. I was serious, I put on my game face. He was equally serious, like he was watching to see if I would pass a test.

I took a bite. It was horrible. I spit out the flesh into the kitchen sink.

Yuji was holding a glass of water. He got some from the fridge for me. My twelve year old heart skipped a beat.

“Your friends told me you don’t eat mango pits. Don’t ever do anything to please anyone again, no matter how much you like them,” he said, his fourteen year old face sombre.

That’s what I tell our three kids now, twenty years later.

Detour

I didn’t feel like writing that day.

I was lachrymose and my nose and eyes were red from crying all night. This breakup was dragging on too long. He’d say goodbye, then ask to come back, then decide he didn’t want to be with me again. Then come back and so on. I put a stop to it, finally last night. I sent him a final text message: “you hurt me for long enough. I can only take so much. I don’t want you to come back.” Then got another cell phone number.

It’s over, finally. I can go into the moving on part now. But I don’t want to. I was still hurting and my pain became my best friend. I coddled it these six months when I was in limbo. And I couldn’t find a way out.

I called my Dad. I asked for two weeks off from work. I didn’t yet know what to do with all that time so I called my Dad. He always had a trick up his sleeve, especially to cheer me up.

My Dad is as unorthodox you can get. He always encouraged me to be my own person, maybe because he comes from a family whose roots can be traced back to the 17th century. It is filled with men and women who were powerful in the time and place they occupied. He thought dereliction of duty was the ultimate self expression: the abandonment of the welfare of the collective to pursue one’s happiness was something he always wanted to do but was never able to because of his position in society.

I, on the other hand, am a bastard child born in secret away from the public eye. He lived vicariously through me. This meant childhood could’ve been an anarchic adventure except I was placed in the care of my mother’s strict sister who was a stickler for rules and convention. You can imagine what a mind fuck it was for me having to make up my mind on who to be.

So I call him up when I want to do something crazy. Last time I was depressed he asked his Japanese friends to take me on a hot air balloon race up north even when it wasn’t hot air balloon season in my part of the world.

He picked up after the first ring, like he always does. He doesn’t know about my boyfriend, who technically wasn’t because he never acknowledged me as his girlfriend in the first place. At least I hope Dad doesn’t know.

“Hello sweetheart! I was calling you last night. Your number wasn’t working. Why’d you change numbers?” Did I mention? Scotland Yard works for him.

“I got a combination Charlie last night,” I said trying to hold back my tears and my snot. Combination Charlie is our code for boy trouble.

“Bummer, darling. Want to fly up here? Snow’s not bad.”

“I’m okay Dad. I just need help. I’m stuck in a rut. I’ve been trying to move on from this boy I broke up with. He left me in limbo for six months, now I’m a mess,” I let go finally. I felt for the box of tissues on the bed behind me.

“Hmm. Moving on problems, eh? Daddy prescribes a trip to Scotland so you can meet handsome young golfers. You know if you let me set you up with a duke or viscount you wouldn’t have this problem,” I can tell he was grinning. He knows how much I hate English aristocrats. Being with them suffocates me. I caught up with the levity.

“Come on. Mom can do better than that. Why are you distracted? Do you have another minor in your boudoir?” I teased. I felt better just hearing his voice. It’s sad we had to live in opposite sides of the world. But I suddenly realized why he’s the first person I call when I’m knee deep in shit. He gives me the courage to do what I feel is best for myself. He never tells me what to do.

He laughed his rich, deep laugh. “I have a dozen of them here; taking turns to give me a lap dance.” Then silence. “You know I know you know what you need to do right?”

“Yeah. I’m just being a coward. So you know?” I knew the answer even before I asked the question.

“Yes. You know I won’t let just anybody come near you, don’t you? I love you very much and I won’t let just anybody take advantage of your sweet nature.”

I felt mad, a little rebellious but he had a point. It was a sore point between us, his snooping into my private life.

“Know what? I’ll never have a love life because of you. I might as well enter the nunnery, at least there I get brownie points for my bloody chastity,” I almost yelled.

He laughed. “Don’t worry poppet. There’s someone there who wants to meet you. I don’t know how he made the connection but he knows you’re my daughter. Why don’t we all have coffee at your favorite bistro next week? I’ll fly over. Now, don’t say no. Just be fair and don’t go out with him because you’re on the rebound. He’s worth more than that.”

My acquiescence was like the last molar taken out from my mouth: it came out with a lot of resistance.

Dad picked me up from my digs late Saturday afternoon to go to my favorite bistro a stone’s throw from the central business district.

I knew who he was the moment I set eyes on him. He never approached me before but our paths must have crossed a thousand times already. I knew him from work and even when I wasn’t working I’d see him. He’s a prominent businessman in this country and I get the hijinks thinking of him. The news about the annulment of his marriage to a socialite was all over the society pages last year. I always admired him. I just never had the guts to come up to him and say so.

His salt and pepper hair was neatly groomed and his horn rimmed glasses could not hide the sparkle in his beautiful brown eyes. My knees literally went weak when he smiled.

Our eyes met.

I smiled and held out my hand, muttered my name and sent a prayer of gratitude to heaven: “Thank you for letting me get lost so I can be found.”

And I concede. Daddy knows best.

Darkness

I seek out the dark
Even as I fear it the most
A prisoner of my father’s fears
I have spent these years
In a self made cage
Impenetrable and sweet
In its predictability
In dark closets I hide
The space between coats and cloaks
My heartbeat, my breath
I hide to hide
The shameless tears
Trapped in a self
No longer familiar
The saline falls
And stains the wood
With my pain.

Kitchen Sink Drama

Scalloped Tomatoes (Serves 6)

Ingredients:
5 tablespoons good olive oil, divided
2 cups (½-inch) diced bread from a round rustic bread, crusts removed
3 pounds plum tomatoes, ½-inch-diced (14 to 16 tomatoes)
1 tablespoon minced garlic (3 cloves)
2 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons kosher salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
½ cup julienned fresh basil leaves, lightly packed
1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Procedure:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees Celsius.

Confront him about the letters. Ask him why his ex-wife kept writing to him even after he married you. What is the point, you ask.

If he claims it was an innocent correspondence, throw 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper in his face. You are not an imbecile. You know the difference between innocent and carnal. And guess what his affair with his ex-wife is all about. Definitely not innocent!

Snack on the 1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese as you watch him writhe in pain and hear him call you a ball busting bitch. It’s your favorite type of cheese after all. It should be enjoyed with a great show.

Get up from the kitchen table. Take off your wedding ring and throw it in the rubbish bin. This marriage is so over.

Pack your bags. Call a good lawyer. Keep his ex-wife’s letter with you. They’re good for getting a fat alimony.

Stay with your Mom and Dad in the meantime. They’ll keep you from doing anything crazy.

Whatever you do, keep your head high and don’t look back.


* Recipe Ingredients Courtesy Ina Garten/Barefoot Contessa

Repressed

The spider of your hand
Invades my privacy
Your yearning
A solid taste on my tongue
The blood of your desire
Pulsates through my being
I rake my hands
Through the salt and pepper
That covers your head
I am a mess
Uncontrolled
Uncontrollable
Who was it that said
There has to be an end
It should be infinite
The spiders
The invasion
The collision
It should be infinite
How we become infinite
How we unite
The forces of who we are
Into one throb
Into one peak.

Peeking

Eaves

It was obvious in his eyes. He didn’t have to utter a word. Their son did not make it.

She cried quietly into his shoulder praying for strength, praying for courage. How could she make it? She did not want to go on, but there was her husband, there were her three other children. There was her audience. She is a columnist in the local paper and a celebrated author of children’s stories. This was an ending she could not have imagined for her 14 year old Dean.

They sat down in the third row of chairs in the emergency room. She could not understand anything anymore. For all she knew her son was a well adjusted teenager, both athletic and artistic and given to profound reflections.

He ingested a whole month’s worth of downers, which she took for her anxiety attacks, this morning. She found him in his room midmorning because he did not come down for their date to go to the bookstore for their monthly shopping spree.

“I think we should tell the kids,” her husband said.

She wiped her tears, got up and headed for their Mini Cooper. God help me, she prayed.


-end-

Nene

I retrieved the scapular from the bathroom floor as I came in to clean it.

She forgot things now, not by loss of will power, but perhaps as a sign of age that cannot be kept from advancing.

She sat by the window, her hands still young looking after all these years. She will be ninety this year and she’s been telling me for the past ten years now that she is ready to meet her Maker. I knew this for a fact, she prayed every morning after waking and last thing before sleeping.

She wrote in her journals still, her mind and eyes still sharp. It was as if she found the secret to stopping time, save for her occasional forgetfulness.

I read her entries, just as she instructed me to and saved them on the computer on the cool dawn mornings when my sleep medication starts to wear off. They were often dry, humorous observations of her everyday life and the people she met in retirement.

She is a doctor, but she stopped her practice twenty years ago when she noticed she still had the head for it, but not the heart. Not anymore. In her practice as a psychiatrist she helped a lot of people recover from seemingly interminable illnesses. She was good at it. You could even say it was her calling.

But twenty years ago, the asylum she ran burned to the ground. She felt it was already too late to start over and left the task of rebuilding to her younger colleagues.

She spent her retirement years writing poetry and spoiling her grandchildren. The latter she did from a distance because she may have had health, but it was frail health.

Which was how I came into her employ. I finished nursing but did not have the guts to take the board so I had to content myself with caregiver jobs.

She was nice. And I liked that she was distant. It established our places in each other’s lives. I did not want to get too close to her, but it seemed inevitable. She is very kind and generous.

Unbeknownst to her, I kept up with her old patients. I maintained her email when I came in and a lot of them were inquiries about her. They wondered where she went after the fire.

This is not to say she is a recluse. She is as gregarious as I was told she used to be. Her old cronies often dropped by for a game of bridge and she still danced with her husband on balmy nights when it was warm enough to stay in the spacious lanai.

I never told her my problems, but during times she’d notice I was distracted or a frown knitted my brow she’d smile and give me time off.

She’d send me off with, “Be patient, Monique. Things have a way of working themselves out. Just be patient.”

And what do you know, they always do, with or without my help.

You could say I developed affections for her, if you want to be understated about it. Or if we were being totally honest, I’d say I love her like I love my two mothers.

I became more assiduous in my duties and it did not escape her notice. Every time she went out she’d bring something back for me. When she was to eat alone, she’d invite me to join her. Or she’d make a gift of her poetry, framed and laid out with pressed flowers.

Our quiet understanding grew over the years I was in her employ until I began to dread her birthdays. Sometimes I’d check the wrinkles on her face and anxiety would overwhelm me.

Time was gaining on her.

Today she is napping in her favorite chair by the window. I brought fresh tomato juice and Saltine crackers for her snack. I touched her shoulder and said her name.

She did not budge.

I shook her. She did not respond. Coldness crept around my heart. Tears fell as I called the hospital. My hand shook as I opened the door to let the paramedics in.

They checked for vitals and tried to revive her. But I knew she was where she was meant to be now.

As they wheeled the body bag out into the ambulance, I noticed a flock of grey doves on the lawn. A white one led the others towards the sky. My heart felt light. I understood then. She’s on her way to heaven.

Because you told me you are gay

I remember days like these
Balmy mornings
And nippy air

Who’d have thought
This love would be left
In the dragon’s lair

Years we counted
You and I
Apart and together

I could only feel you
When you were too shy
To say you’ll be there

In the windy nights
With the denial
I missed the part where you cared

Now it rains everyday
I slip on the pavement
I do not dare

To give this heart away
When in joy and in pain
No one must share

I sit here typing
Lonely verses
My broken heart laid bare.

Mulat

Sa bisperas ng pagkamulat
Hindi nila ako magising
Sa bangungot sa aking piling

Hindi pinangarap
Maging bulag habambuhay
Ngunit kay hirap
Idilat aking mga mata

Ikaw na itinangi
Ikaw na inasam
Nasa harap ko
Walang pag-aalinlangan

Ngunit di makahakbang
Di masambit
Mga katagang nagmamay-ari
Ng aking pagnanasa

Paano pupunta sa iyo
Binigkis ng takot ang aking puso
Baka kung kalian ika’y nakapitan na
Tsaka ka maglalahong parang bula

Nais ko lamang, iyong yakapin
Sabihin
Walang dapat ikatakot
Pagka’t itong pag-ibig
Ay mas makapangyarihan sa poot.

Sylvia and Patricia

“We’re having this goddamn conversation right now. You’re fucking telling me what the fuck is going on in that fucked up head of yours! I’m not fucking leaving until we fucking talk! Do you fucking understand?”

He was not an easily excitable man. It would’ve taken the hand of God to make him this mad. He never raised his voice, never used foul language. But now, he used seven expletives in four sentences. He never uttered more than one sentence in one breath. She’s in deep shit.

She covered her ears, to dull the sound of things banging in the next room. She’d never seen him in this state before. Nothing ever stirred his equanimity, not even the past dozen or so attempts she made on her life. But this last one, they nearly weren’t able to revive her and it scared the be-Jesus out of him. He hadn’t been the same since. Maybe it’s finally sinking in to his stubborn brain: she doesn’t want to live.

He’d been her fiancé for six years; they’ve lived together for four. She’d been suicidal since she was ten. He’d known her for 14 years. They were casually dating when she disappeared from his life for a couple of years. When she reappeared, he didn’t let her go. Now it has come to this.

He banged on her door, which had ten locks. “You’re telling me what’s going on. If you don’t come out of there, I’ll call the cops,” he wasn’t yelling but his determined tone sent chills of fear down her spine.

In a few minutes, she saw her door crash. Eight men in scrubs came for her, ready for any attempt to resist or escape. She was brought into a closed van, which headed east of the city to a private psychiatric facility, where she was brought the first time she had a breakdown. She laughed as she went through the motions of admission: strip search, cataloging her belongings. She was given a bed in the semi-private ward. An aide gave her a toothbrush, her pajamas, an extra pillow and her departed mother’s last work of art, a quilt.

She mostly slept for three days, thanks to a tranquilizer. They only woke her up for meals and hygiene. On the fourth day, she was put on a regular program that scheduled meals, exercise, and therapy. She refused to eat the first few weeks, but the medicines that she stopped taking were given to her under strict supervision, so she regained her appetite and put on weight on her bony frame after she was discharged.

But the year in between was limbo. She could not do the things she used to do outside. She was not allowed to paint, until much later because she tried to commit suicide by ingesting her acrylic paints. She was not allowed to swim in the pool because she managed to drown herself in the three foot end of their pool at home. All she did was sit and wait until her psychiatrist deemed her fit for therapy.

It was difficult for all the therapists who treated her. They could not get down to the bottom of her suicidal tendencies. If you looked at her life from an outsider’s perspective, it was indeed a charmed life.

She was given the best education money can buy. Her two sets of parents doted on her and she stood to inherit a fortune that would giver her power over four continents in the world.

Her partner worshipped the ground she walked upon and she was well received in the circles in which she moved. There is nothing she could want for that she could not have.

It was this perfection that suffocated her. She hated that her life was well ordered, that her relationships were sickeningly well adjusted and that people loved her.

The fact that she was nearly perfect peeved her even more. All her life she tried to find something to hate about herself—she could find none.

She could not run away from home. Her filthy rich father paid a satellite in space to track the electromagnetic activity unique to her brain so he could retrieve her even if she got lost in the densest of forests.

It was a gilded cage and she was a golden bird. It sickened her.

One year after her discharge from the loony bin, Gus let her stroll around the park alone. But there were bodyguards within screaming distance. There was a woman taking photographs of everything in the park. Patricia was intrigued.

She approached the woman.

“Amateur, professional or in-between?” she asked, putting on her most cordial smile.

The photographer laughed, waving her compact camera in her face. “It’s an automatic, so I don’t think I could consider myself as any of those,” her grin was infectious.

“You’re wearing all black, are you in mourning?”

The smile faded from her face quicker than you can say uncle.

“My husband died, just a week ago,” she whispered a tear rolling down her left cheek. She rigged her camera to her laptop and started downloading the photos she took.

“I’m sorry to hear that. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want. I’m sorry I brought it up,” Patricia regretted her slip-up. “I’m Patricia by the way, what’s your name?”

“Sylvia. It’s okay. Maybe I can talk about it with you. You seem nice. I didn’t cry during the whole thing. I was trying to be strong for my son. He was so attached to his Dad.”

“So what happened?”

“My husband Dave was a thrill seeker. He came from a wealthy family and I think he never got over resenting that he was born to privilege. He always did crazy things. Sometimes he’d disappear for years then I’d hear from a hospital or a police department in another country that he was in trouble. It’s worse than baby-sitting a five year old.”

“I thought having a kid would give him a sense of purpose and I was so happy when I learned I was pregnant. But he only stuck around long enough to see our son get born. After that he became even more unpredictable,” Sylvia continued.

She went on: “Before he died I asked him why our life was the way it was, why he seemed so afraid of normalcy. And he said, there was so much to live up to, carrying that illustrious name. He was so afraid he’d let his family down if he followed in their footsteps. I think after he realized that he just didn’t want to go on anymore. He OD’d on downers the next day.”

“Oh my God,” Patricia whispered. Then to Sylvia, “How would you have coped?”

“Not to brag, but my family is older than my husband’s. My Mom always told us, the idle mind is the workshop of the devil. That’s why growing up my parents always engaged us in sports and art and activities to keep us busy. We had an army of servants but we were required to make our own beds and stuff like that. I never forgot those lessons,” Sylvia smiled through her tears.

Patricia gripped Sylvia’s hand. “Thank you. You’re an angel. Please be my friend. Can I give you a hug?”

Sylvia nodded and felt comfort in hugging Patricia. She sighed a deep sigh. “Thank you. That was a relief. You have no idea.”

Patricia rummaged in her bag for a calling card. “Here. I beg you. Please, please keep in touch.”

“Gosh. No need for that. Friends are always welcome. Hey, I have to go. I need to pick up my son from soccer practice. I’ll see you around. I live on your street. Take care!”

Patricia was left sitting at the park bench. She was smiling as she called Gus on her mobile phone. She figured herself out. It’s going to be work but she’s ready to be who she is now. And she will need his help. She was ready.

When Gus arrived, she gave him a long, slow kiss.

“I’ll be the first to do this in my family, but I think it should be a new tradition. Dear Gus, will you marry me?”

The twins arrived two years later.