He has a smile that I think no one sees. No one catches its beauty. It’s the way his lips crease into his mouth, briefly letting his guard down. It’s beautiful, and he just doesn’t see.
Passerby
I stood there looking through the racks, fingers running through multiple pieces of clothes, searching for a warm familiarity. I walked off in disappointment and glanced across the room—that was when I saw him—a being of flesh and bones. He sported the usual white t-shirt and blue denim shorts, along with a golden necklace and white tennis shoes. I shouted but my lips failed to move. I leaped towards him but I was too slow. His demeanor was a focused and relaxed one. He was not affected by the overwhelming sight and sound of shoppers; it was as though he were immune to them. I would have reached over for a hug but my body was weakened with excitement. Instead, my eyes fixated on his thin figure for just a minute, comparing his every feature to the very last time we said goodbye. He turned around and walked away, vanishing into another aisle. This was no doppelgänger or hallucination. He was real, and he had looked right at me, as he always did with those big, brown eyes adorned by long lashes.
Scents
On peculiar nights after bathing and spritzing myself with my familiar perfume, the scents of moonlight and a refreshing sweetness take me back to our encounters. Isn’t that what they were, nothing but encounters? I do not ever miss them emotionally or even physically; this is but the strong powers of memory and scent.
Former Friend
I was there when your father passed. I colored and brightened your misery with sunshine. I was the unconditional friend who invested time in you. I’d drop in to say hi or drop off lunch. I did so whole heartedly and with pure intentions, nothing phony or flirtatious. I vouched for you and helped you get a job, away from your misery. We shared endless laughs and common frustrations; we cried together. Throughout this friendship I gave you so much while you pulled away each time. I am not sorry that friendship was all I ever offered you. I am not sorry that I never sneaked around with you the way she does. I never wanted your time in that way or manner. It saddens me to see your words come to life, that I am an acquaintance and not a friend. When I first heard it I already knew it was true, but sometimes you’re forced into letting things go temporarily. Now that I am no longer your colleague, I am also neither an acquaintance nor a friend. I sincerely wish that you find the missing piece to that vast void in your heart, an emptiness you believe can only be filled with deceit and lust. I was a friend from start to end. Thank you for all the laughs.
Between Worlds
Noise runs relentlessly through my head, and I ask myself: how many lives have I ever touched, what grand or minute marks will I leave on this earth?
A few days ago I heard what sounded like my father’s voice. He mumbled a single syllable straight into my ear, and it sounded like a “yeh” or an “eh,” but it echoed deep and long enough for me to register that it was him. I turned around quickly, thinking in silence, who snuck into my apartment? Of course, there was no one—not behind me in the kitchen and not anywhere in the apartment. His voice was so surely alive for less than a second, such a small time frame that will easily make one question one’s sanity. But, clearly that voice was neither invented nor a projection of grief. The elements of awe and fear would not exist if it had not actually happened.
My father and I were different on the surface yet identical on deeper levels. We shared a common difficulty in showing emotion and easily becoming frustrated. Snappy remarks and petty pet peeves were the norm. Whether I learned to be like him or biologically inherited such characteristics, I’ll never know. No matter how bumpy the road and how ever many roadblocks, his path and mine are naturally intertwined from start to finish. Hearing his voice was a reminder that the finish line is ambiguous as we will cross paths again.
Linger.
Repressed memories resurface, randomly. Radio tracks reverse the hands. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. A constant rewinding and replaying of tapes force me into recollecting my footsteps. A five year-old is riding her tricycle down and up the patio. A sweet taste of strawberry milk fills my mouth. I contemplate the idea of the soul saying its goodbyes. The smell of lipstick lingers strangely.
Dented
She kept a red journal tainted with sins and painted with truths. Its pages were imprinted with her bear and naked soul. Its sheets contained sincerities and burned with untold passions. She was certain no one would notice, as there was nothing peculiar about this book. She had no fear of it ending in the wrong hands, and she was pleased to own it. Such confidence and fearlessness ended at the sight of prophetic dreams and visions. She stopped. She stopped filling the lines with what she carried in her heart, with what overcrowded her thoughts. Days went on, and on, until she would finally make room to write. By then she would have already bottled up countless emotions, swallowed her sadness, and wept her frustrations. On a Sunday evening she sat there, writing episodes of the tiny little things she called dents. Dents of emptiness. Dents in her heart
Happy Endings
I once shed light to the darker spaces of my mind; I shared intimacies and opened my heart blindly. Enemies of my friends were too, my enemies. External factors became my very own. Perceptions and opinions clouded me, influenced me. Foolishly seeking acceptance, I cut ends before attempting to untie them. I have seen from every angle there is to see; I have been within and without; I have been on the outside looking in, and have formed part of every phase possible. Although some positions are more powerful than others, the tables always turn and the cycles, like seasons, are forever changing.
The day before yesterday, I learned an important lesson yet again, connected to the meaning of naiveté. People—with the exception of a few—aren’t willing to simply lend an ear or a shoulder to cry on; they are merely vultures preying on one’s hardships, one’s downfalls. They rejoice at one’s misery; they listen not to care, but to savor the tragedy. They spread false information; they contaminate others with misrepresentations of the truth. In the process, they fail to measure the reach of their tongues, the poison in their hearts.
Yesterday, I felt an immense repugnance—rumors, betrayals, lies, childishness, gossip, and drama—people speak it, eat it, and then vomit it into others’ mouths and ears. To say I was disgusted and nauseated is an understatement. I wished nothing more but to expel these toxins and breathe fresh air.
I asked God, and he listened. I stopped lingering on the different possibilities, versions, and outcomes.
Today I feel at peace. Nothing is dark or muddy. I owe nothing, and nothing is owed to me.
Tomorrow is the beginning of a fresh start. To happy endings.
For my father
I see the highest mountain, and you are at the very top.
I then imagine myself climbing restlessly–if I climb just far enough, fast enough–will I capture a glimpse of you?
Will I follow you through thick clouds and into heaven?
From down here I gaze at the mountain’s peak, beholding its beauty.
At this peak you stand; at this peak you sit.
The sun’s rays shine on you, their warmth comforting you.
The rain cleanses your soul, suggesting rebirth.
At the top of this mountain you are rejoicing, you are free.
From down here, how I long to sit with thee.
[Do you]
Remember a younger me and a younger you spending time together, sharing banana split decisions on sunny summer days after school. Recall the nights we spent refreshing one another’s spirits and mending one another’s souls. We sat there sipping on coffee and hot cocoa before we were old enough to befriend alcohol. Remember a younger me and a younger you, when life’s curveballs were miniature and the future appeared so promising.
[I do] remember a younger you and a younger me, where we thought we knew real pain and heartbreak. [I do] recall nights spend solving our problems through jingle bells and Carolina. Now we sit far away but do not ever doubt you’re in my heart. I miss you too old friend and old sister.
lizbethavila 