Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Waiting, Wishing and Wanting

She sits by the front porch of their little home, beneath the same sky he also sees. It has always been comfortable to stay under the canopy of those tall Acacia trees without anyone knowing what she's doing. She tiptoes every night for the fear of judgments and curfews and waits here until she cannot stand the chills of the night anymore. Other nights, she brings a shawl o a jacket, mostly when she can hear the snores of the others, a sign that they are deep and lost in their own paradise of make-believe and therefore she can wait a little longer than usual. Some nights, she brings nothing but herself and her guilt of broken promises.

He lies awake all night, until the sun eats the moon away and he'll get up to start working. He cannot stop thinking about the past, the present and the future, making him all restless and unhappy while everyone snoozes… well, except her, of course. This has been his life after she decided to just meet him there. He constantly checks his mobile phone for any message from her wrongly sent to him. He waits emptily for her broken promises. He is absently hopeful to meet her again, just hanging in that desire because he knows that he cannot just throw all those memories away.
Two years of absence. Two years since she saw his dark complexion, and who can tell, maybe he is darker now, but she likes his skin tone so much. Two years since they talked about what’s up, and she’s sure that his voice is now bigger, deeper, defining his manhood. Two years since she delivered her sad goodbye. She still doesn’t know how to make her promises real, or if she has to make her promises real. Who knows, as he aged, he might lose his interests as he lost his innocence. She doesn’t know if he’s waiting for her, like she patiently does, or he’s happily living the rest of his life without her. After all, there are no signs of him, except her instincts, except her feelings, but what good are those abstracts? She needed something real, something to convince her to be true to her empty words.

Two years of waiting. Two years since he saw her long and black hair and he doesn’t know whether she cut it short or it’s longer now. He hopes that it's longer, for it adds to her irresistible charisma. Two years since they talked about what’s up, and he hopes that she still talks the way she does, for it is distinct and melodious and very mature. She seldom speaks English and finds it humble about her. Two years since he delivered his sad goodbye. He still doesn’t know whether she remembers him, occasionally, or maybe frequently like he does. He doesn’t know whether he still needs to hope, to wait, to wish secretly for her. There are no signs that she’s coming back. No messages, no letters, no missed calls. She must have forgotten her promises, for people forget the things that don’t really matter. Some days, he will wake up and go on with his life, hoping that when the nighttime comes, he will not wait anymore… because it hurts, it really does. But everything changes when he sees the stars, because her smile is bright as those little sparks. There are no signs of her, except his instincts and the voice in his head that says “What if she comes back?”, but what good are those abstracts? He needed something tangible for a fresh hope of another day. He needed something to silence the other voice which whispers, “What if she doesn’t come back?”

And it took them two years… and counting, to do the nightly routine of waiting and wishing and wanting.

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