Tuesday, May 16, 2017
I opened my eyes to mornings, knowing you'll be around - probably beside me, still sleeping. Or somewhere in the living room or kitchen, starting your day.
It had just been the two of us, with no child to think about - God's mystery - but at least, with a foster daughter whom your sister sometimes brought to our care. Years made me grow so familiar with every inch of you. You and me. Your skin and my skin. Your clothes and my clothes. Your school of fish in the aquarium and the dishes I cooked which you liked - and of course, our house where many family reunions turned into a blast.
But here you are now, lying behind this glass, in a barong you didn't know we bought you. You're seemingly smiling - even seemingly peaceful - but for me, you have just become beyond reach in all sense. Your body which I've known for years is now solely a vessel, an object that remains still, wilting, turning into ashes. This glass seems to draw an end to us - no more hugs, no more kisses, no more scent that only your body owns.
I am asking, how will I face the following days? Of waking up beside an empty space on our bed, of eating with an empty chair, of keeping empty clothes that would no longer need some washing.
Things will change.
Things have to change.
And life will be new not only for me...
but also for you.
*For my aunt who grieves, and for my uncle, her husband, who reads this from heaven.*