Stories

Short, but February is always comes with a delightful surprise. Although my opinion might have been bias for having it as my favorite time of the year, I can’t deny that everything I adored is always came around during the month: the nice, cold, breezy and rainy weather, holidays, my birthday. I bet times too, went slower as they refused to say goodbye so fast to the month.

Most of the time I rarely have plan on weekends, but here I am on somebody else’s porch in early Saturday morning, just a few blocks from my house. A scented of freshly cleaned floor around us filled up the air, wondering just how much effort we have spent to enjoy this particular morning together. Silly I would say, but we have got to admit that we wouldn’t beat the distance just for anyone, especially this early in the morning.

Although it was barely mentioned in our conversations, a corner which sat a pile of freshly cut grass has been our point of interest for at least twenty minutes now. Our eyes keep locking on the far distance of the yard as we talk about countless of topic that comes to mind. This morning is clearly a delightful new twist to our memory, especially from my point of view.

The morning increasingly memorable as the time went by. We went to a local market for a breakfast. Strolling around the morning crowd and got a take out of a couple portion of chinese noodles, along with a cup of tea for each of us. Got into long conversation about God knows what, we really do enjoy each other company. The sun is beaming, but not really, just a perfect amount of ambience we seek out for today and the meal is delicious.

The day is comparatively stand out for so many reasons, but above all else, I got to see all of the imaginative parts of our conversation comes to life. I got to put faces to names which often mentioned in conversations. I got to visit places I wouldn’t have visited, though I have passed it numerous times. I got the chance to peek just a little taste of the preferable palate in certain family I have never met. I got to enjoy the morning with a favorite neighbor of mine and listen to several tunes he played in between.

Much to my surprise and others’, I even got to put a life and a front seat to the famous argument of a deeply personal question in life between the inseparable two of this house. One that I have been avoiding in years of our conversation. I swear my mind travel so far that I nearly hear their conversation as whispers. Although it might a little too late, “I shouldn’t be here now, should I?” is what I keep thinking of.

I’d say this once, but if I had the chance to do the day over, I wouldn’t prefer any other way. Although, still, a less shocking introduction would have been nicer on my part.

For the past few years now, I have been keeping nearly everything I supposed to remember in written form. Names, places, events, appointments, anything I would like to remember, down to the silliest thing I saw a few minutes ago that will lighten up my face for the rest of the day.

This afternoon a kind neighbor took me and several other people on a quick tour around the neighborhood to one particular corner with streets I have never set my foot on. Who could have guessed that this neighborhood had such an endless boundaries. I don’t know whether they just keep stretching the edges as the years went by, or was I simply lack of enthusiasm compared to everyone around here. Maybe, but I should have keep my friendly, yet deceiving enthusiasm to minimum, or else, I keep getting myself into things I wasn’t interested in.

“This is a very old neighborhood, you know. It has water tower on that other side…” he said to the group, as started the tour. “..a lake on that end..” as he pointing to another end of the neighborhood, much closer to where we are standing, “..a ruin of castle on that hill, next to that gorgeous mansion.” Looking at his enthusiasm, I swear, if he is not currently up for some award for being a dedicated, and certainly proud a citizen, I don’t know who else will deserved it. “..and oh! a Well down there!” he shouted. “…please, be careful before you step further”, he continues.

“This is one of the oldest thing that the neighborhood owned, built exactly when somebody start developing this area in 1880s.” He walked around in circle, as he keep narrating everything he knows about the particular finding we just encountered. “..however, it was dried up soon after it was built and nobody knows why. Nobody wants to lived on this neighborhood at that time. Maybe because they set it up on June” he explain further. Quick on their tongue, I never like whenever a tour guide end their sentences with an improvisation. It makes the whole story less convincing, for me at least.

“Go on, throw something into the well. See if there is any water left in there”, he encourages the crowd to participate on the one-way conversation he has been leading us so far. “..maybe today is our lucky day, finding out that the well had been saving us a water all these year. Who knows.” This time I am curious of something else though, why do we always intrigued to throw something into the darkness, the unknown, the questionable distance. Maybe we are born a curious creature, but certainly an annoying one. I threw my first aim.

“Did you hear something?” asked our jolly tour guide. “No, not on my end“, I said. “Okay, don’t be discouraged, throw another one”, he continues. “why?”, I asked. “It is fun!”. So, there goes my second aim to the bottomless pit in front of me.

“C’mon, third time’s a charm!” By the time he said that I no longer remember the purpose of me doing it in the first place, so I let go of the third aim that never actually leave the palm of my hand far enough to reach the target. “such a shame, it could be our best shot for today. Anyway, the next place we are heading to is…” he responded as he carried on with the tour.

A Eulogy

A breeze of one cold morning has always been a nice wake up call for all of us here in this beloved neighborhood of ours. Though I refuse to acknowledge the rest of the blessings, it was one of the thing that I am extremely grateful of, living within one overly involved small community. No matter how cold the weather is, how empty the street is, and how quiet the day is, I always know that somebody is home, whether it is the nice grandma next-door, an old lady who lives three doors down, or the nice old couple who lived in the house up there. Their presence is one that I can always count.

Right now, for once, they could be enjoying their delicious meal, one that my family can recognized from afar, or maybe enjoying the morning coffee while hiding their faces behind that spread of newspaper that I barely find these days. As well as tweaking their car that I can’t remember ever leaving the garage, or maybe complaining over our noisy habit in silence. In fairness, we are that noisy.

Maybe, but not today. In silence, I know everyone out there mourn for the loss of these beloved souls. Here or someplace else. Whilst four is relatively small number for others, our small neighborhood only consisted of sixteen houses, two of which already empty for ages. And while their presence will always be missed by the community, I wished nothing but the best for all of them.

As for today, let me keep the memory of their presence a while longer.

It has been such an exciting experience for me to lived in this neighborhood for several years now and I intend to do that as long as I can. Exciting as I kept finding things I never know I needed and certainly, never running out of things to offer.

Today, I received a gift of an antique mirror from a rich neighbor of mine. She was leaving for another city, and practically giving all of her stuffs and furniture away for the entire neighborhood to keep. It was basically a garage sell, but a free one, and I was drawn to this particular mirror on her collection. Apart from it being the prettiest and most polished out of the collection, it turns my reflection upside-down. Standing in front of it, I played my hands around a little. It is like having a slightly disoriented twin in an alternate universe.

Through my curiosity, I asked her why she keep polishing this mirror over and not the others. And with the care that she had given up to the collection, why does she choose to give it all away. It was a pretty standard question to an unexpectedly deep and profound answer. The mirror I was eyeing for was coming from her late husband at their very first anniversary and when it comes to the mirror, we both shared a similar sense of humor according to her.

“How so?” I asked. “He referred me as his slightly disoriented twin, to each other we seems a lot like two peas in a pod. Although, in reality we are a complete opposite to one another,” she explained. “You see that core in the middle? That’s where we meet. We shared the same value, though in practice we tried to balanced each other out. He might see me to be slightly disoriented from time to time, but don’t forget that from my reflective end, I find him slightly disoriented as well. It was mutual.” she burst into laughter as she reminisce the rehearse tango between the two.

“So why did you give them out? especially this one?” I asked. “The day after I received this mirror I realized that it had no practical uses for me, so we got into a small argument. No seriousness, we discussed all of our differences from time to time.” she answered. “..and while it was a sweet gesture and a great gift, look at the size! It is maddening, all it did is taking up all of the space in our small bedroom. After that, he keep giving me each of the mirror in the collection, the useful others, on each of our anniversary.” She continued. “I am giving this up, because it no longer served the purpose as I have lost that disoriented grandpa last year. I am quite practical that way.”

Slowly, I rolled the mirror away to my street, as she waved one last goodbye. Not to me, but maybe to the memory of her late husband. In her honor, I tilt my head to get it closer to the very end of my own reflection and whispered: now show me, and walk me through the logical explanation of every deceiving and misinterpreted emotions I encounter, ok?

In the meantime, I will keep reading these pages over and countless others if I have to.

I was growing up in a world of illusions, created by none other but my own self. It is an enchanting part of the world that no one got to see and I am keeping the mesmerizing view for myself. At the time, I was lucky that my companion to this very world was my little brother. Each day, we would go to an empty corner of our house and disappear to a new adventure of ours. Suddenly, a conversation of two in each of our mind sounds much more reasonable for others to understand.

Unfortunately, though to this day I am convinced that being comfortable with my imagination bring no harm to anyone (including myself), outside the house I was rather perceived as a distraction for others. Empathizing, that I had became a worry for everyone that people had to got themselves involved. I became the challenge for others to overcome. Often times, they got an unbelievable amount of pride and rewards had they successfully milked a little bit something out of my kooky and distracted mind. Out of the experience, I came out with four trophies, a prize, a photograph and an accused plagiarism of my very first writing.

Why am I telling all of this? Because living under the illusion of mine, I have grown to admire the person who nurtured me through the experience. I was living under the impression that she was the only one who actively trying to sheltered me from the cruel negativity of the world. I started giving my best to convinced that both of our judgements weren’t disgracefully misplaced. Whatever it is, we would like to prove that none of us are in the wrong, or so I thought.

But life is not perfect, so does people who lived inside it. To this day, I have her name up to one of the best teachers I have ever had. Though her kind and selfless persona was quickly shattered as I grown to accept the reality, I am heartbroken and grateful to reminisce the long, motivating and painful journey we both shared. Thinking about it now, I should have never chicken out when I still got a chance to thank her in person. In so many ways, she was right for being ambitious, judging me as a distracted little kid and worrying for others’ wellbeing. Meeting me, that is what all teachers would do. I just wished that she trusted me on the process as she did for others.

Because rather than being wildly offended for reading a well-written story by one of her pupils, it would have been easier to believe a kid with a kooky imagination to write her own fiction.

Farewell, my dearest teacher.