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When The Rain Falls (5)
CHAPTER 5 – “Torn Between Two Lovers”
As our intense encounter subsided, the rain’s relentless drumming continued. It wasn’t the rain that ended our passionate connection but our exhaustion from the frenzied attempt to consume each other. Like shipwrecked souls, our desperate thirst for connection left us drained and gasping for air in the harsh light of reality.
Sleep, a heavy, unwelcome blanket, enveloped you as always after our stolen moments of forbidden intimacy. The cycle had spun for what felt like an eternity, each encounter a desperate grasp at pleasure tainted with guilt. Once intoxicating, the thrill of the secret now felt like a flickering flame casting long, menacing shadows. We were moths drawn to its destructive warmth, unable to pull away.
As I got dressed, I saw you sleeping. You looked beautiful and captivating. It’s unfortunate that you’re with someone like Daniel. I felt a selfish urge to make a promise I couldn’t keep – to take you away from your husband. But the weight of Elena’s trust, a fragile thread already straining, held me back. Should I leave my fiancée to be with you?
The sound of thunder pulled you from sleep. By then, I was already clothed, a knot of guilt tightening in my gut as I sat perched on the edge of the bed near your feet. You stretched, a yawn escaping your lips, before reaching for your clothes. As you held them out to me, a silent question hung in the air. “Help me dress?” you asked, a flicker of something – trust? Dependence? – in your eyes. I willingly obliged.
As I finished helping you dress, I was overcome by a mixture of emotions. The urge to hold you close, to feel your warmth against mine, was a physical ache I couldn’t ignore. My fingers brushed the bare skin of your nape. Then I leaned in and pressed a kiss to the sensitive flesh there. My lips lingered, the warmth of your skin searing a brand onto my conscience.
The embrace lingered, a silent plea hanging heavy in the air. With a reluctant sigh, you pushed yourself back, your eyes searching mine. A tremor ran through your hands as you cupped my face, your touch both hesitant and desperate. “Jeff,” you whispered, voice thick with unshed tears, “I can’t… I can’t stay with Daniel anymore. I can’t stay here in Sagada any longer. It’s suffocating me.” The words tumbled out, choked with emotion. “Please,” you pleaded, your eyes glistening, “help me get out of here. You’re my only hope.”
A stunned silence fell between us. Your words, laced with a desperation I hadn’t seen before, caught me completely off guard. My mind scrambled, unsure how to respond to such a sudden and dramatic plea.
“Jeff,” you whispered, clinging to me, “take me anywhere. I’ll go with you.”
My breath hitched. “Do you mean… leave Elena?”
You pulled back, your eyes stormy. “What am I to you, Jeff? A fleeting pleasure?”
A pained silence stretched between them. Finally, I muttered, “Camille…”
“Is this your game?” you cut me off, voice sharp. “Seduce and discard?”
I flinched. “What about you, Camille? Am I just a substitute for Daniel’s affection?”
“Love?” you scoffed. “Can you even love someone in a few days? Three days, Jeff. Three days, and you think you’re in love?”
The challenge in your eyes sparked something in me. “What about you, Camille? Have you…grown to love me?”
A beat of silence, then a shaky nod. “Yes.”
My heart pounded. “And what if I said the same? What if I told you, Camille, that I love you?”
A flicker of hope crossed your face, then hardened into resolve. “Then there’s no problem, Jeff. The decision is yours. Do whatever you want. But I’m leaving Sagada. Come if you want. We meet tomorrow. Here, until two.”
“But Camille…”
“No buts,” you said, your voice firm despite the tremor in your hand. “Me or Elena. Choose.”
You reached for the hut’s door, flinging it open to reveal a relentless curtain of rain. The wind whipped it sideways, momentarily chilling you to the bone. Without a word, you turned back to me. Glistening with unshed tears or maybe rainwater, your eyes held mine for a beat too long. Then, with a swiftness that surprised me, you leaned in. Our lips met in a desperate kiss, a plea whispered on the storm’s breath. It stretched on, a silent battle between what we wanted and what we knew. Just as my hand reached out to pull you closer, you broke away. A single tear escaped, tracing a glistening path down your cheek as you stepped back, a world of unspoken emotions swirling in your eyes.
“If you don’t come tomorrow, that will be the last kiss you get from me.”
The rain pounded on the roof, but you stepped into the downpour, refusing the shelter of your umbrella. The sight of you alone, soaked by the cold rain, stayed with me. Your unspoken words felt heavier than any storm. My thoughts mirrored the chaos outside, torn between you, Elena, my wife, and our life together. The choice between you both consumed me, an echo drowning out all reason.
I didn’t wait for the rain to stop. I went home, and along the way, I kept thinking about what you said after you kissed me before you left the hut – that it would be the last kiss I’d get from you if I didn’t go to the hut the next day. That was perhaps the sweetest kiss you’ve ever given me. It seemed like you purposely made that kiss intense as a reminder of what I would lose if I didn’t choose you. The memory of your kiss seared itself onto my thoughts, a constant reminder of the impossible choice I faced – the sweetness of your lips versus the comfort of Elena’s.
Upon reaching the house of my fiancée’s family, I was met by the jarring sight of Elena’s cheerful greeting on the terrace.
“Oh look, Dad, you didn’t get wet this time because you brought an umbrella.”
“Yes, Mommy,” I replied as I plopped down on a chair on the terrace.
Elena also sat on a chair in front of me.
“My daddy looks very tired again. Did a fairy appear again and…”
“Alright… a fairy came to the hut, and I f—ed her. That’s why I’m tired.”
That was the first time I seemed to have scolded Elena. She was startled. She bowed her head, looking embarrassed.
I quickly thought of a way to make up for it. I suddenly laughed and laughed.
Elena looked at me in surprise.
“Mommy, I was just pranking you. I was just pretending to be angry.”
Elena was very puzzled.
“I thought you were really angry, Dad.”
“So… sorry, Mommy. I guess I was just too tired.”
I scooted my chair closer to her. I held her hand and gently kissed it.
Elena’s next move caught me off guard. Rising from her chair, she closed the distance between us in a single, surprising step. Then, before I could fully react, she was on my lap, her lips meeting mine in a kiss that was anything but innocent. A playful nip at my lower lip sent a jolt through me, a mix of surprise and a strange, simmering arousal.
It was then that I realized the difference between your kisses – your kisses, a whirlwind of passionate intensity, had left me breathless. Hers, however, were like a soothing balm, filled with a tenderness that spoke of a love built over time. You were fire, a thrilling inferno. Elena, a warm hearth, a comforting refuge.
The decision of whether to meet you at the hut tomorrow wasn’t simply a choice between passion and love; it was a tangled web of desires, obligations, and the potential consequences of each path.
Elena tilted her head, her brow furrowed in concern. “Are you feeling alright, Dad? You seem a little out of sorts today.”
I offered a tired smile while squeezing her hand. “A bit of a long day, that’s all, ” I responded.
“Maybe we should just head back to Pasig, then? I was thinking maybe all this trouble here is getting to you.”
“The thought is sweet, Mommy, but we can handle a few bumps in the road. Sagada is beautiful, and we’re not done yet with what we came to do, right?”
Elena’s face brightened. “Right! Once Mom is feeling better, we can still see everything! The hanging coffins, the falls, the caves – it’ll be an adventure! We can even go to Banaue and see those amazing rice terraces everyone talks about!”
I chuckled. “Sounds like a plan. We’ll make a whole vacation out of it.”
“Prooomise!!!… Now, Dad, what do you want – coffee, tea, or me?”
I played along with Elena’s joke.
“Coffee now and you later.”
Another thing I loved about Elena was her sense of humor. You… had none. It was hard to read your true nature because we met when you were burdened with problems. So, I saw you as too serious and always troubled.
Why did it seem more likely that I would choose you? Elena, my wife, my rock. Her love was a steady lighthouse, guiding me through life’s storms. Yet, you were a shooting star, a fleeting glimpse of something extraordinary. The passion, the danger, and the wrongness of it all ignited a fire within me. Perhaps the allure of the forbidden, the thrill of the unknown, or maybe a spark of something deeper I couldn’t define made you the storm I was inexplicably drawn to.
The day loomed, a dark cloud on the horizon. The pull towards the hut, towards you, was undeniable. Yet, each step closer brought a fresh wave of doubt. A knot of guilt tightened in my gut, and the image of Elena’s trusting smile constantly reminded me of the love I was jeopardizing. Leaving felt wrong, a betrayal of the vows whispered on a sun-drenched day.
But then, your face would flash in my mind – the intensity of your gaze and your desperate plea. Was that reason enough? Reason, it seemed, had deserted me. Logic argued for safety, for the comfort of the familiar. But you were a storm brewing in my heart, a tempestuous force I couldn’t ignore. Desperate for clarity, I found myself drawn to a quiet corner untouched by the day’s turmoil. There, I surrendered the decision to a higher power with a whisper that felt more like a plea.
TO BE CONTINUED…
When The Rain Falls (4)
Chapter 4 – “The Second Time Around”
The next day, Elena and I couldn’t leave the house. It rained all day – rain that reminded me of you, of whatever it is between us. It wasn’t water quenching a fire, but rather like oil that ignited it. The relentless downpour lashed against the windows of Elena’s family house, a steady drumming that echoed the disquiet in my heart. My mind is like the windows; what transpired in the house and what we did under the table while having dinner are as relentless as the downpour pounding my being.
I’m not sure what I’m feeling for you. Am I just pretending not to know? Is it purely physical attraction? Am I being controlled by lust? Could I be developing genuine feelings for you, or do I simply feel sorry for your situation? The distinction between desire and deeper emotions is unclear, and I find myself lost in a sea of confusing feelings.
A shard of guilt twisted in my gut. Whatever is there between us is entirely wrong. You and Daniel aren’t married, and Elena and I aren’t married yet either, so we can’t be accused of committing adultery. We hadn’t broken any vows, but the betrayal felt heavy nonetheless. Maybe you didn’t feel guilty for betraying Daniel because perhaps your love for him has already faded for all the pain he caused you. But what about me? I love Elena. That’s why I’m marrying her. But why is it like this? There’s still a space in my heart, and it seems you filled it. And I need to find out how much space you have filled. It may be more than the space for Elena. It was like a path diverging, and I stood frozen at the crossroads, unsure which way to turn. Once reserved for her alone, the space in my heart now felt fractured, and the uncertainty clawed at me.
Elena is beside me, but you consume my thoughts. Why is it this way? When I kiss Elena and close my eyes, your face appears. It feels like I’m kissing you, not her. I went to Sagada because of Elena, not you. Yet, I can’t find a way to get you out of my mind. You’ve disrupted my quiet, simple life.
“Sorry, Dad.” Elena disrupted my thought processes. “We couldn’t go out. Let’s go tomorrow, okay.”
I responded to Elena with a kiss on the cheek.
“Mom is so embarrassed because of what’s happening. Why did it have to be now that we’re here that the problems with my brother and his wife erupted?”
“Tell her not to worry about me. Camille’s well-being is more important… uh… and your brother’s.”
I mentioned Elena’s brother because she might think something else about the two of us.
“I’ve been trying to call them to check, but they’re not answering. I also messaged Camille, but nothing. Maybe Daniel has her phone. Mom is really worried. That’s why it seems she’s feeling unwell.”
I was feeling so anxious about you. The whole day passed without any word from you, leaving me unsettled. In an attempt to distract myself, I spent time editing photos and videos to upload to my travel vlog website. Then I remembered that I had taken a picture of you. I transferred it to my laptop and opened it, hoping it would make me feel better, but it only made me sadder. It made me long to see you even more.
The third day since I met you arrived.
I barely slept the previous night, and thoughts of you occupied every waking moment. Do you ever think of me as well? With all your worries, is there any room left in your mind for me? In your heart, do I have any space? I hope I do, even if it’s just a tiny bit.
I was the first to wake up. Elena and her mother were still asleep when I got up. My fiancée slept in her mother’s room. Her mother had a fever, so she needed to be taken care of.
I brewed some coffee and sat on the terrace. The sun rose, though it might not last long because it was the rainy season. I thought that Elena and I could finally go out so I could have photos and videos for my vlogs and distract myself from constantly thinking of you. I wished to forget you. But will that happen?
“Good morning, dad. You’re up early.”
Elena sat next to me and sipped my coffee.
“My brother called around midnight. He apologized to mom. He said he and sister Camille are reconciled now.”
“Ah… that’s good to hear.”
I didn’t mean what I said. I did not want you to have a reconciliation with your husband. Is it impossible to resolve your deep-seated issues as a couple so easily? Nevertheless, I was glad to hear some news about you.
“Jeff, Mom has a fever, and I must take care of her. If you want to go out for pictures and videos for your vlog, I might not be able to accompany you. Is that okay?”
“It’s okay, mommy. You need to take care of mom.”
“Go visit the mini rice terraces. Take some pictures. Bear with the small rice terraces for now. Eventually, you’ll see the bigger ones.”
“Alright, mommy. Don’t worry about me.”
“Also, take a picture of the hut. I haven’t seen it in a long time. I’d like to see it even just in a photo.”
“Sure. I’ll leave around ten while the sun is still up. It might rain again this afternoon.”
“Okay, Dad. Wait, I’ll start cooking our breakfast. I’ll also prepare something for you to take with you later. Loverboy… there’s still beer in cans in the fridge if you want to bring some.”
I observed Elena as she walked towards the kitchen. She is a wonderful person with many beautiful qualities. You have known her for a long time and are aware of this, too. There’s nothing I can criticize about her, which is why my parents like her. That’s why my conscience is bothering me because of what’s happening.
After breakfast, I got my things ready. I was heading out again to capture more photos and videos.
The people I passed outside were already smiling at me, perhaps because they had heard that I was Elena’s fiancé. I waved at them and returned their smiles.
I found a spot where I could start taking pictures and videos. I opened my first can of beer, plugged my earphones in, and began singing along to songs by Air Supply and Ed Sheeran again. “Here I Am” by Air Supply now holds meaning for me because of you. The lines “those thoughts of you keep taunting me” resonated deeply.
That outing was definitely worth it. I took many photos. When I checked the time on my cell phone, I realized I had been walking for almost three hours. And then I saw the rice terraces carved into the side of the mountain again. They looked even more beautiful when hit by the sunlight.
I quickened my pace when I spotted the hut. It would be insincere to deny that I hoped to find you there. As I approached, I heard some movement inside, which made me almost sprint towards the hut, eager to see if you were there. I peeked through the open window, and all I could see were field mice on the table.
You weren’t there, and I felt disappointed, but it was okay. Maybe you and your husband, my future brother-in-law, were already getting along. Did you get fooled into reconciling with your good-for-nothing husband again? I didn’t want to say that I hoped you resolved your issues. I have to admit, I didn’t want that to happen.
I was irritated that you were on my mind again; I should be thinking about Elena, not you. There’s nothing between us because you’re already committed to Daniel, even if you’re just living together.
I moved a little away from the hut, and as Elena requested, I took a picture of the hut that had become the nest of our infidelity.
After that, I felt a cold breeze. The sun hid behind the clouds again, looking like it would rain. But this time, I had an umbrella with me. Elena insisted that I bring it in case it rained again.
It started to drizzle, so I went into the hut to retrieve the umbrella from my backpack. The rain intensified, but I could still venture outside if necessary. However, feeling tired and hungry, I chose to stay inside the hut for a bit. I planned to rest, have food, and then head home despite the rain.
I placed my belongings on the bed and unpacked my food. I had two more cans of beer. I only drank one and didn’t feel intoxicated. I
The wind picked up, so I closed the hut’s window. Luckily, I had a mini-rechargeable light in my backpack, and I turned it on before reaching for the door to close it. To my surprise, you walked in. It was unbelievable to experience that moment again – encountering you inside the hut. The only difference this time was that you were not wet from the rain as you had an umbrella. I also had an umbrella. Both of us had umbrellas, so why didn’t we decide to keep walking to avoid meeting there again?
You closed the door, then stood before me. As our eyes locked, no words were needed. You embraced me, reigniting our undeniable longing as our bodies connected. You kissed me passionately like nobody ever had. Then you pulled away from my embrace.
You sat on the edge of the bed, and while looking at me, you took off your clothes… and underwear. I approached you. You removed my belt, unzipped my pants while I was taking off my shirt, and then knelt before me. The ecstasy brought by what you did afterward was not like anything that I felt before.
While the hut provided shelter from the rain, we still got wet… with the guilt of our betrayal.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Mirror
An AI-aided translation to English of my didactic poem in Filipino entitled “Salamin.”
Filipino version: https://www.wattpad.com/1363564304-mga-pangaral-salamin
Informal Criticism of Literary Works
People often react to a literary work quite differently. Their reactions and opinions may vary even if they enjoy reading the same story. These reactions may also depend on whether or not they have knowledge of literature and literary criticism. But that notwithstanding, people will naturally want to say something about a story after reading it. Such a reaction is instinctive and indicates that literary criticism is a natural response to any literary work.
A critique of a literary work may be done either formally or informally. Formal criticism has a definite objective and direction. This kind of analysis adheres to the established standards of literary criticism and is anchored on a certain literary theory. This may be done in the classroom as a course requirement, in a journal or magazine for publication, or on a website.
Conversely, the informal version is a simple discussion of the merits and demerits of a certain work in prose or poetry, perhaps done by friends in a cafeteria while sipping coffee or even while riding on public transport or in a private vehicle. If two people have read the same story or watched the same movie, expect a discussion to ensue.
Technological advances have allowed writers to reach their audience and increase their readership. The invention of social networking sites, blogs, and websites has provided writers more platforms to post their stories, essays, and poems. Most writers have their own websites and accounts on Facebook where they promote their literary works.
This has also given literary criticism a new dimension from which to operate. Friends and followers of certain writers can easily turn into critics or supporters and have the opportunity to say something about their writings. Such comments are considered informal criticism of such work. Whatever may be said about a story or a poem is essentially an evaluation of those written materials.
But we tend to think that an informal analysis of a literary work is only a personal expression of views bereft of any academic worth, for literary theories are not used to guide a reader in developing well-informed arguments. We dismiss informal analysis of a story or a poem, especially if it’s made by people unfamiliar with the nitty-gritty details of literary criticism, as being purely misguided opinions, which are basically subjective and disorganized.
However, when we carefully scrutinize people’s comments and expressed opinions related to literary works, they are actually, but perhaps unknowingly, toeing the line of the established literary theories just the same.
For instance, if an author pens a story or a poem about “sadness,” his readers, especially those who know him personally, would readily think he has a problem. If it’s about “separation,” the presumption would be made that the creator just “called it quits” with someone. If such a write-up were posted on any social network, we would expect that it would generate a thread of comments asking what had happened or expressing sympathy in some way.
The assertions in the previous paragraph are a case of “analyzing the author through his work.” This in literary criticism is called “Psychoanalytic theory.” The theory maintains that a story or poem gives insight into the author’s mental processes. Things read in a writer’s work are believed to reveal his feelings and thoughts. Those who subscribe to this theory maintain that separating the author from his work is difficult. This means that any literary work is said to be a mirror of the author’s state of mind and emotions.
In reality, only the creator of the sad story or a separation poem knows if his emotions and thoughts are being discussed in the piece.
Other readers would say, “It is a good story (or poem) but sad.” In the foregoing remark, the focus was on the work or text itself. The author was not part of the equation.
This approach to literary criticism is called Formalism. The theory of Formalism tells us that a literary work has its own intrinsic value. The words weaved together to form meaning divorced from the author’s and reader’s state of mind and emotions. The poem or story should be scrutinized from within, not consider socio-cultural influences, authorship, or historical background. The focus of the analysis should be on the words in the literary work and not related to its author. The things considered should be the story’s or poem’s structural elements, including linguistic devices, literary devices, style, imagery, tone, and genre.
I have essays, stories, and poems posted on Facebook (and other socials), eliciting varied comments from friends and random netizens. Such comments include “That’s what you call irony!” and “Enchanting words woven together to almost perfection to which every poet can relate.” These are examples of “formalistic” reactions.
A surprising comment one of my works received was, “I like green thoughts sleep furiously.” This is about CHOMSKY’s Syntactic Structure. Obviously, the one who commented has a solid background in linguistics. Such goes beyond “Formalism” but touches the outskirts of “Structuralism.” But a reader who has a limited background (or none at all) in literature, much less literary criticism, will find it difficult to use these lenses (“Formalism” and “Structuralism”) when critiquing a literary work. Rare are the informal criticisms that focus on a poem or story’s linguistic and literary structures.
Normally, readers’ reactions to informal criticism would be based on their schema (prior knowledge) activated as they interact with the writer’s words. Each person has a wealth of knowledge and experiences that control their thoughts and decisions. It can also be assumed that the schema enables a reader to give the text its meaning or the author’s own meaning.
There’s also a theory that holds that readers are the ones who give meaning to the literary work. The body of words the author has created is meaningless until the readers read and interpret it. This theory is called the Reader-Response theory.
The proponents of this theory contend that both poems and stories are not considered finished until they’re read and interpreted. And the meaning of the literary piece is what the reader brings to it. This means that a reader interprets literary works as his schema dictates.
If the reader has it, the role of a background theory or philosophy is to moderate his interpretation. But even without a background in literary criticism, whatever a reader says about a literary work will always have philosophical underpinnings that may be connected to a literary theory.
Ultimately, how to react to a literary work is always a matter of choice (and a matter of whim) for the reader. The reader can be any of the following: psychoanalytic, judging the author through his work; formalist, accepting that words put together have a meaning divorced from the author and the environment; or a subjective reader, giving the work his personal meaning.
Furthermore, a reader can be a Feminist or a Marxist in his informal criticism. A reader with a strong grounding in literature and linguistics may opt to be a Structuralist. There are also other hats in literary theory that can be worn if one wishes to. But even if readers may not be bridled by any theory when responding to a literary work, it doesn’t matter, for literary criticism is more of a natural human response to literature than an intellectual undertaking.
As it has always been, readers respond naturally to literary works and express opinions evoked by their knowledge and experiences, sometimes informed by their biases and prejudices. Objectively or subjectively crafted, their opinions are their own. However, readers should never cross the line of propriety and decency when crafting their criticism.
EVERLASTING (Part 5)
(Short Story / Last of 5 Parts)
I felt tremendously excited and a little bit worried for my grandmother. I cannot be mistaken. The old man who gave the card was her adorer. I wished that the old man decided to stay longer. I opened the gate. Grandma got out first.
“Where is he… where?” asked my grandmother. “My God! Why didn’t you give this to me immediately.” I scanned the part of the road where I saw the car parked. It was no longer there. In the whole neighborhood, I searched, my Grandma’s adorer was nowhere to be found.
When I returned, my grandmother stood in front of the newly-built bungalow where the old man parked his car earlier. Needless to say any word, both Grandma and I were despondent. My sadness emanated from the failed expectation that I would meet the noblest lover I have known.
The source of my Grandma’s sorrow was different, I was sure. Now, I no longer need to ask if Grandma loved her adorer. Her actions at that time betrayed her – her being so disconsolate for failing to finally see her adorer after more than four decades revealed how she truly feels for him.
We exchanged no words until we reached her room. I decided to stay with my grandmother. She had laid on the bed while I went back to continue reading Peeker’s blogs. My Grandma’s eyes were closed. I watched her intently. Even in old age, she remained elegantly beautiful, notwithstanding all those wrinkles. No wonder why her adorer fell madly in love. Later on, I noticed some tears falling from her closed eyes. At that instance, all the more that it became clear to me how she felt about her adorer.
After a few minutes, a notification about a new blog entry appeared on the laptop’s screen. After 10 years, Peeker blogged again for Charming.
“Grandma, wake up. Peeker has a new post for you!” There was no reaction from Grandma. She seemed disinterested. “Did you hear that grandma, a new post from Peeker!”
It took a while before Grandma reacted and said with her eyes still closed, “Would you like to read it aloud for me?”
“My pleasure!” I answered. With tremendous excitement, I opened the blog entry and started reading aloud.
—–
My Ever dearest Charming,
“Happy 60th birthday… Rest assured that I never stopped thinking about you. God knows I never stopped loving you.
Now I can tell you. I worked in the Middle East only for 5 years. I returned to our country after that, but I decided never to bother you. I made it appear that I stayed for good in the Middle East. Please forgive me for that.
I was there when you graduated from college and in graduate school. You just did not see me. I was there during your 30th, 40th, and 50th birthday celebrations. I was there each time that I wanted to see you. Each time I would only be watching clandestinely from a distance and through the tinted glasses of my car. How lucky I would be to see you daintily tending the flowers in your garden as my car rolled by. You know so well that just seeing you would give me immeasurable joy. But why do you seem sad whenever I see you alone in the garden?
I almost died in jealousy each time I passed by and witnessed on your terrace how gently your husband would kiss you on your cheeks and lips.
I was there also when you got married at the age of 25. You were the prettiest bride that I have ever seen. That was the most ironic moment in my life. While you were tying the knots, mine was unknotted, for it was that day when the court approved the annulment of marriage that my wife filed. I never got married again, for I vowed you would be the last woman I would love.
Why did I stop blogging for the past 10 years? Your husband got sick, and I don’t want to burden you more. I wanted you to provide him with undivided attention. When he died, I tried to respect your bereavement. I may have stopped blogging, but I never stopped tirelessly watching you from afar.
I own the bungalow nearby. I was watching when you and a young gentleman came out of the gate of your house several minutes ago. But I don’t know why until now I am afraid to face you. Perhaps I need an answer to a question I should have asked you before we parted that day.”
—–
Upon hearing that portion, my Grandma opened her eyes and excitedly exclaimed, “What did he say again?”
“Grandma, he was in his house when we searched for him. He saw us.” I retorted.
“Oh, that melodramatic fool,” my Grandma said in exasperation.
—–
“I was the happiest person on earth when I saw you. I would like to believe that you were looking for me and wanted to see me. I hope I am not so presumptuous, but under the bright light post, I saw in your face how much you wanted to see me. When you could not locate me, I saw how sad you were, the same sadness that I saw during our first and only date… it was a picnic we had then… I told you that I would be leaving for the Middle East.
Now I have one request to make. I will now allow you to comment on this post. Please answer my questions.
Do you love me? Please allow me to live the last days of my life with you.
—–
My grandmother obliged. She requested me to encode her reply to her adorer’s questions.
—–
If only you tried to show up before I got married, things would have been different. Right from the start, you have stolen my heart. You’re a thief. But I was so young and so afraid. I didn’t know what to do. I cried when you left. I cried a river. That river drowned me for a long time. I wanted to stop you from going, but I don’t know if you would listen. I was waiting for you to kiss me, embrace me, and do whatever you wanted to do to me. But you never did.
I cried every time I read your blogs. And as the days, weeks, months, and years passed, I felt how much my love for you had grown stronger.
If only you appeared in the church during my wedding, I would have ran to you and asked you to bring me anywhere you wanted. But you never did. I want to think that you’re a coward. I did not ask you to sacrifice to give me away to someone else because you always wanted to toe the line of propriety and morality. I don’t know if I would consider that sacrifice on your part or if it was cowardice. It hurt that you did not try to express your feelings for me. I would have preferred to be ridiculed by my friends and family…by society…than lose you.
You are right. I was not happy all those years because I kept waiting for you. My husband knew about you, about my feelings for you. We quarreled many times because he resented that I could not forget you until he accepted that you would always be part of me.
But I never told him about your blogs. Your blogs kept me afloat, but I preferred seeing you in flesh and blood. I waited for you to show up anytime and take me away, but you never did. My husband knows that anytime you appear, he may lose me. I hate to admit it, and may our God forgive me for this… there were nights I shared the bed with my husband, but I imagined you.
And here you are now, finally.
How cruel of you not to have blogged for the past 10 years. It was during those years that I needed you most. Not just that. You doubled my pain. For not blogging, you kept me drowned in anxiety. I did not know what happened to you. I thought you finally got tired of loving me. I thought you were sick. I thought you were dead.
How cruel of you not to have just shown up, kissed, and embraced me when I left the house earlier.
I want to see you in my garden tomorrow. If you don’t show up, forget about me.
—–
“Are you happy now?” Grandma asked. “Now you know the answers to all your questions.”
“What will you do when you see him tomorrow, Grandma?”
“I will slap that melodramatic old man!”
“Then?”
“I will embrace and kiss him! I will demand that he marries me.”
(The End)
EVERLASTING (Part 4)
(Short Story / 4th of 5 Parts)
Then I noticed that sadness gradually disappeared in the landscape of Peeker’s next blogs as weeks passed after he met Grandma.
—–
“There’s no denying that I have fallen in love with you. But it is also pointless to expect reciprocity from you. I could only dream; anyone can dream that you would love me in return. I could only wish, for there’s no limit to wishful thinking, that you should have come into my life when I had no moral restrictions.
While I ceased uselessly thrusting aside my feelings for you to God, I fervently prayed (and always pray for you) that He may keep my intentions for you pure. After that, I began noticing the good things you have done for me, something that I did not see when trying to shrug off what I felt for you. Only then did I realize how wonderful my life was turning since you came into my life? You have served as a tremendous inspiration.
With you around, I began to view life positively again. I became more passionate and creative with you everywhere in my work.”
I have promised never to let you know how I really felt for you, for I am afraid that you may no longer treat me the way you did and that even our friendship may be extinguished. But it was a risk that I had to take. I decided I must tell you, not because I wanted you to reciprocate, but I just want you to know, before I go and may never see you again, how endeared to me you have become.
—–
“So, grandma, before that 3-month program ended, did he make the big revelation?” I asked.
My grandma looked at me, paused for a while, then said, “Actually, during the last month of the program, he told me about someone serving as his inspiration, a very young woman. Then, later on, he admitted to having fallen in love with her. But no matter how pushy I was in asking him when we talk or exchange text messages to divulge her identity, he would not.”
I could sense the excitement in how Grandma relived the past. Then she continued, “During our last session for the program, he asked if we could talk that weekend in a quiet place, just the two of us. I acceded for a gentleman like him I know could be trusted. We had a picnic in a park on the outskirts of the next town. He was undeniably happy. I had never seen him so happy. I have never seen him smile genuinely or laugh so vigorously. Before, he may smile, but his eyes always radiate sadness.”
“We talked about many things but intentionally avoided touching on serious matters. He informed me that he had resigned from the university where he was teaching. After two months, he would be leaving for the Middle East, where he accepted an invitation to head the university’s English Department there.
Honestly, I became sad and momentarily speechless upon hearing that. I didn’t understand why. But I didn’t like him to notice it. I wanted to tell him not to leave the country, but I chose not to. I really did not like him to leave. I don’t know why. We spent almost the whole day in that park.”
Then I asked Grandma how his adorer told him about his feelings.
“He did not tell me anything about that young woman he fell in love with and drew so much inspiration from. Before we parted that day, though, he gave me the note I had shown you once. He requested that I open it when I got home. Which I did.”
“Ahh, I remember that card, Grandma,” I said, “But you did not allow me to read the short message it contains. Please allow me to read the note now. Please…”
Miraculously, Grandma nodded and gave me the note that she was just hiding in her purse.
“I know you will come looking for this note when I told you about this. So, I made sure you won’t find it. But here! You can see it now!” my grandma said with a taunting smile.
Finally, I got to see it. The note reads, “Falling in love with you was the most wonderful thing in my life. I only regret that it is a love that was never meant to be. Leaving was painful, but it was the best thing I must do. I have never asked anything from you in return except this one… please read my blogs whenever you have time.”
As planned, Grandma’s adorer left for the Middle East after two months. But amazingly, he continued to write blog entries for her…
—–
“I was so happy on the eve of my departure because you allowed me to call you. We chatted for almost a couple of hours. Then playfully that I asked, “Why were you born too late?”… you answered, “And why were you born too soon?” We laughed at those oft-repeated lines in a movie.
Then I asked how you felt when you learned that that young woman with whom I fell crazily in love was you. You said you didn’t know what to feel. You didn’t even know what to say at that moment. Upon hearing that, I wanted to think you are naïve, but who am I to judge you. Perhaps I was the one so naïve, putting an emotional burden on someone so young like you. I didn’t bother to push you further. Later you said you were so surprised that a person of my stature would be blinded by someone just like you that you wanted to think it was just one of those jokes I tried to play on you. I offered no explanation for that occurrence in my life – falling in love with you – was something I could not explain. It just came spontaneously. JOKE? It could be, but it is a joke that I did not play on you, but a joke that fate played on me.
Before my plane flew, I sent you several text messages. Unabashedly, I told you how much I love you. And, of course, you know what you said in return.”
—–
“Grandma, what did you tell him in response?
“I admitted that he has become a part of my life, very much a part of my life. I told him how I wished I could love him in return.”
My grandma momentarily stopped. “Hey grandma, what? What else did you tell your adorer?”
A moment of silence ensued. Grandma stared and smiled at me and answered hesitatingly, “I… I was not sure… I was too young…too confused. I didn’t know what more to say then.”
I was so disappointed with Grandma’s response. I would like to believe what Peeker said that Grandma is naïve, but who am I also to pass judgment on her.
—–
“Goodbye, Charming! The greatest pleasure that I have in my life is knowing you. Certainly, you will remain forever in my heart and mind. I will be praying for your good future. May you have a great family. As I wrote in the note I gave you after our picnic… please read my blogs whenever you have time.”
—–
How tirelessly that Peeker expressed his eternal adoration for Grandma. Her feelings for Charming seemed to have not relented through the years. He never got tired of blogging for Grandma – telling her about events in his life – asking her for prayers for his problems and difficulties – detailing his pains and grief – expressing his unfathomable affection to her. That went on and on through the years.
“Grandma, did you regularly read your adorer’s blog?” I asked.
Grandma nodded and said, “Of course, weekly, sometimes fortnightly, there were times I did it daily. I did it in secrecy, always in the wee hours of the morning when nobody would notice. But he discouraged me from giving reactions to his blogs, which I obediently followed.”
Asking Grandma again how she felt about Peeker would just be a practice in futility, for, as always, she would give a vague answer. But regularly reading his blog would mean that, at least to Grandma, her adorer is someone very special, or it could be more than that.
At 3:00 A.M., I decided to allow Grandma to rest. My thirst for information about her adorer was more than quenched. She promised to give me access to Peeker’s blogs anytime I wanted.
Then I remember the old man and the birthday card. Before leaving Grandma’s room, I gave her the said card.
” By the way, Grandma, somebody wants you to have this.” She read the card as I head out.
“Wait!” She said, “Who gave you this? Where’s he?” I have not seen Grandma so excited.
“An old man in a car parked by the roadside before I came here. I wonder if he’s still there. Why?”
To my amazement, Grandma got a jacket and scurried downstairs while wearing it. I followed her immediately.
EVERLASTING (Part3)
(Short Story / 3rd of 5 Parts)
He admitted being so stupid for feeling how he felt because my grandmother was so young at that time, almost half his age. He admitted to being inappropriate because he was already married then.
“Ahh, those were why you did not love him in return, you were half his age, and he’s married?” Right Grandma? I inquired.
“Just keep on reading, will you!” was Grandma’s response.
I expected she would finally tell me directly how she felt about her adorer. It was again a futile attempt. I just continued reading.
—–
“I have laughed off Francis Bacon’s thesis about love. He said that love is similar to the stage. It is filled with tragedy, comedy, mischief, and fury. I thought it was a shallow analogy. But now here I am, sounding like an actor in a play delivering a soliloquy. And I am not sure when this will end… when I end talking to myself. “
“This is a comedy. I made myself my own laughingstock. And I am almost certain you are laughing now at my stupidity.”
—–
I paused reading again and asked my grandma, “Did you consider all these kinds of stuff stupidity, grandma?”
“Never! Why should I?” was her curt reply.
When I continued, I suddenly laughed (and my grandma was amused) when I read that portion of the adorer’s blog where he admitted he was crazy thinking of grandma almost every moment. The following lines are similar to the content of my video message to a pretty classmate I was wooing at that time. The next were the words I told that lady, “I think of you almost every moment…before sleeping at night, I would think of you. I would see you in my dreams, and when I woke up, the image of your pretty smiling face would greet me. You seemed to have established omnipresence in my consciousness. Your image is present in the books I read, in the movies I watch, in the sky, in the trees, EVERYWHERE!
Then I continued reading the blogs…
—–
” I have disagreed with Bacon when he posited that ‘it is impossible to love and to be wise.’ It is equivalent to saying that love makes a person crazy. I disagreed, but here I am swirling around my own disagreement.”
“Funny, but I considered kinds of stuff like these childish. I hate being dramatic. But it’s exactly what I have become.”
“What have you done to me? Most of my working hours were spent daydreaming about you. The first time that something like this happened to me. I never paid so much attention to a lady, and never had I almost begged to be given attention in return. There were women I dated who were as pretty and charming as you are but more sophisticated and schooled. But none of them charmed me the way you did. None of those beautiful and successful women made me feel and act so strangely this way. It was only you – a youngster – someone who has yet to prove her worth. You rendered my training in Philosophy worthless, for in matters about you, I have become illogical.”
“Yeah, I hate to admit it, but what happened is plain stupidity. This should not be, but I am so helpless. People at a certain stage in their lives commit stupid acts and say stupid things they may regret. Is this my turn?”
—–
“Gosh, Grandma, are you sure you are not a witch? I would like to think that you gave this man some potion.”
My grandma just gave me a smile and a loving nudge on my nape in response. “I would say that he had really gone crazy over you. How did he cope? I hope that your most ardent adorer did nothing stupid.”
Grandma smiled and said, “He is a decent man! He did nothing wrong! I did not know about his feelings, his predicaments, or the pain I caused him. He kept those to himself for a long time! Everything seemed normal when we talked personally, on the phone, or exchanged text messages! Okay, just read on.”
Read on. I did. I passed by entries that vividly elucidated the man’s emotional struggles, the predicament I hoped I would never be able to undergo.
—–
“That night, I went to the riverbank where I would have my reflections every time I would be emotionally burdened. Falling in love was supposed to be a wonderful feeling, but why it has become an emotional struggle for me. It has brought me more sadness than joy.
No, the sadness was not a product of guilt for falling in love with another woman when I had already tied the knot with another one. Not even for falling in love with someone so young. The moral purists may disagree, but falling in love is never wrong. Falling in love per se is not a sin. The subsequent acts committed to pursuing the feeling would determine whether it’s sinful. Ahh, I am clearly trying to justify my stupidity.”
—–
Falling in love is a beautiful experience, but the adorer’s seemingly hopeless struggle to shrug off the feeling prevents him from experiencing the joy of falling in love. He said that he tried so hard to suppress the emotion. But to no avail. The adorer admitted having his ways with women. He knew how to make women fall in love but never tried any trick on my grandmother.
The adorer wished that he could circumvent the existing moral standards so he would not suffer from his ethical dilemma or that he could have been born in a culture that would not give him such prohibitions.
—–
“I know I can love you but never have you. I can love you, for nobody has the right to prevent me from feeling what I have felt for you. As hard as I did, I could not restrain my heart from falling in love with you.
But I can never have you for obvious reasons. That I needed to accept wholeheartedly my love for you is a love that was never meant to be.
It was also pride, not guilt, preventing me from experiencing the joy of falling in love. I found it hard to accept that a young woman like you could put me on an emotional leash. But that also is a reality I have to accept. I gladly put in your hands that emotional leash. Make me happy, make me sad. Do as you wish!
Could this be my karma? I used to be the one who held the handle of the emotional leash.”
—–
I sympathized deeply with the man for all the emotional struggles he underwent because of his love for Grandma. What could be more painful than finally finding true love in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and under the wrong circumstances? What a crazy fate! This stuff, I thought, I would only read in stories and watch in movies.
In one blog entry, he mentioned how sad he became one night when he heard the song “Please Don’t Ask Me.” I sympathized so profoundly when he said that the line in the song that hit him the hardest was… “It only hurts the more I pretend that we could ever be more than friends.”
Several other blog entries dealt with how wholeheartedly my grandma’s adorer accepted the realities that confronted him – the truth that only a youngster like my grandma then would drive him nuts – the reality that he could love my grandma, but he could never have her – the reality that they could never be more than friends.
Then I noticed that sadness gradually disappeared in the landscape of Peeker’s next blogs as weeks passed after he met Grandma.
M.A.D. LIGAYA
M.A.D. L I G A Y A 