Monday, March 4, 2013


One day, I will have you.

You who will be as lost as my teenage self, and as stubborn as youthful, blinded love. And in those temperamental days where I will hear nothing but carefully crafted words of hate (nothing but the vexed under-the-breath murmurs of "I don't EVER want to talk to you" and whatever new concoction of swear words popularized at that time), I will pull out a dainty collection of letters that I have written for you a long time ago, only to slip them right underneath the door which you have just closed shut with a deafening slam. To make a point, I suppose.

In those letters, words will read of moments that had materialized even before your were capable of forming memories. They will tell you how soft your baby-lotion rubbed feet felt against my calloused skin. They will recount how sick you were, for the third time in weeks, and how I could do nothing but helplessly watch as tears stream down your face, all the while desperately wishing that I could give you my healthy body.

They will remind you of your first day at kindergarten, when you scanned the room of what you saw in your eyes as predators at a war field, and how you steadfastly held onto my legs unwilling to let go. They will remind you of your run to the door at the first sight of me coming home from work. Your first accidental kiss with your second-grade best friend. Your first loss in sports. Your first win in our card game that, as you would have never found out until now, I had purposely dropped my cards and made you catch that glimpse of my hand.

In those words, memories are embedded to testify how exceptionally fortunate you are, to have a history with me in times that has passed. Memories that most probably will not alleviate your steaming anger even after you have read them in bittersweet tears behind your — still — closed doors, but they are memories that I have noted, and cherished nonetheless.

And in those memories, a foundation to which countless more will be built upon, lies a testament of years after years of love, care, and patience that, to some, could only be fantasized as nothing but luxury. So, read the letters, over and over again. And when you finally decide to emerge from your room, I will still be there.

As I always have been.