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Tuesday, November 25, 2014

A Letter to Gran

Dear Gran,

Albus Dumbledore once said: To the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure.

It’s been a year since you graduated. I’ve got on with my life—we all have, I think—but the void created by your absence haunts me sometimes. Yet I am happy and comforted by the thought that you work at Headquarters. Who would’ve thought that your graduation would be a double-edged sword?  

Okay, this is another letter that cannot and would not be mailed. I know, I know. I’m waiting for the
Muse. She sent you; now my pen does prose. I do not know whether to be amused or confused. The vacuum suddenly turns into a spring from which words pour forth. No complains, only gratitude.

Life has been kind: this year has been chaotic as ever but I survive—no, thrive in it. Headaches plague me now and again, but it won’t stop me from reading. Just like you didn’t drop the needle and thread because your eyes dimmed.

At your commencement ceremony, the speaker said that all the hindrances disappear as soon as your crossed the threshold of the School of Life and are now at Headquarters. You can actually sing songs with lyrics, not just hum the melodies. What voice are you in the eternal choir? I wish I could hear you sing. I always wondered how it would be like: you singing a song with lyrics that capture the heart and lift up the soul, and on top of that, with a voice that puts the morning lark to shame.

It is the rainy season back here. Be it a light drizzle or even if the heavenly tears flood the roads, my thoughts turn to you. As liquid diamonds hit the pavement, I hear you hum. The song of the rain is a tune I hear no more, and yet it reaches my ears when roofs are pounded on and windows are slashed. It’s the new “Rhythm of the Rain.”

What’s in a name? Shakespeare’s Juliet wonders aloud. That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet. That is generally true. But not for me. You alone gave me a name, and it has been a special connection—a bond if you will—between us. The family may call me by that name, but it will not be the same as when you address me. I am never weaned from you. I fear though that people would not understand. Ah, but who cares what they think? They are not your grandchildren; they would not understand the silence that longs for your humming.

You have been a mother for all seasons, and you gave me a long lasting legacy. We never bonded over King Arthur’s adventures during the nights you tucked me in, but you hummed tunes until I was fully embraced by sleep’s warm arms. What kid needs a music box if you’re there? Sure beats Brahms’s lullaby. More than that, you showed me the respect you have for my parents’ authority and their way of raising a child. I did not grow up spoiled, hence, thank you for not playing Court of Appeals with me.

I want to live a life like yours and leave a nice legacy too—not only in the legal sense of the word. When the grandkids come…I will dote on them like you did to me, but not cross the line. Maybe I’d hum the song of the rain too. And tell them the story of a silver-haired granny who loved the colour of royalty.

I know you faced the Chief Justice of the Eternal Supreme Court with your head high and He welcomed you with a wide grin. I’m still young, but when Headquarters comes calling, I want to report for duty the way you did: ready and at peace. When I finally get my promotion, I want to stand before the Chief and be confident enough to say, “To God be the glory for a life well-lived.”

Your departure drove a point home. I heard it lots of times, but your graduation drilled it into my head. Thanks for telling me that at death, we don’t leave home; we go home. One day, I will smile widely as I echo the words of Romeo Montague: Come death and welcome.

Thank you for the legacy and for the gift of being called your grandchild.

Happy first birthday!


Cheers,

Mison

El Ciudad de los Pinos
25 November 2014
12:05 a.m.





   





















Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Be With Me



Be with me in this site, I pray,
Flick your hand, take the pain away.
Give the word, fire the carpenters,
Take the nails, stop their hammers.

Be with me at this time, I plead,
Censor my speech and my deed.
Subdue my will, and make me numb,
That into temptation I won’t succumb.

Hear my cry for help, I pray,
Grant the wish I make today.
Give me strength when I do groan,
To trust, to rest, in You alone

Sunday, October 5, 2014

Eleven Months

To the Mother of All Seasons
     Who celebrates her first eternal birthday
              Next month






Eleven months and this life goes on—
Some with passion; others, total abandon.
Days stretch to weeks then months. Soon, years
I get hit with melancholy and my pen cries my tears.

Eleven months, long time filled with colour and beauty,
Yet I do not fully rejoice, for a colour is amiss, sadly.
The colour of royalty does not grace my searching eyes,
No matter how I blink or make my eyes look twice.

Eleven months of constant noise-filled silence—
The world moves on, not noting an absence.
The deafening silence overwhelms me so
When rain pounds the roof and slashes the window.

Eleven months of two works and a card of sweet memory—
That is all I have, and the emptiness that haunts me.
I eagerly wait for the rain to flood and slash and pound—
Then I will hear that uplifting, musical sound.

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

If I Could Write





If I could write the beauty of your smile—
The split in your face that’d light up a mile,
I’d thank the One that gave me the gift
Of something that makes my spirits lift.

If I could write of the light in your young eyes—
Innocent, observing, often youthfully wise,
I’d thank the One who breathed life into you
For you do teach me one thing or two.

If I could write of the sound of your laughter—
Glorious, sweet melody that rings forever,
I’d praise He who gave you the gift to speak,
For you lighten up a day so bleak.

I think of you, dear child, and I smile too,
Even in this early morning hour of two.
Never mind this aching hand of mine,
Bound in schoolwork since last night’s nine.

I clench my fist and my joints make a sound,
I turn my shoulders round and round.
I look out and I see the start of a new daylight—
Will I finish describing you, if I could write?