*Not a Love story*
Green shirt, jeans, and a red bag — three things I recall, and the aroma of a freshly brewed coffee enveloping the busy halls of the train station. It was a picture-perfect scene only in movies I have witnessed, seeing strangers come and go; waiting for their trains to arrive, and yet with the intention to leave. It was melancholic, accompanied with a gloomy weather with no pretense for warmth despite summer. I extended my hand as a form of greeting, you sincerely responded with an embrace — how kind and welcoming.
I knew you because you looked familiar. You reminded me of the people I only see on my screens every time I scroll my social media feeds, and change channels on my muted television at home. You were recognizable because I assumed what your story looks like, with my own version of beginning and end, not knowing variations could apply — - perhaps crossing oceans in an overcrowded boat to seek sanctuary; or maybe endured a journey thousands of miles running away from home, perceptively taking a passage of no return. I never asked.
Sat down outside a bar, I ordered my gin and tonic, the other person a beer, and yours a juice. Conversations lapsed as if we all knew each other deeply, with victorious smiles, friendly gestures, and possibly expecting sharing how life has treated us kindly — you offered minimal words, and most times silence. I listened. Yet, despite your noiseless involvement, moment when you left, I was asked what you do, a question raised accompanied with the “r” word. I was confused, whether to answer the question addressed to me, or to interrogate myself why society has become engrossingly absorbed with labels.
En route to another city, some roads were closed so we headed immediately to catch the earliest train possible, while I pondered what are the odds, I get to meet a person like you — especially when I was at a crossroads of my life, uncertain of what’s next but certain to willingly accept the virtuous things the present could offer. Facing each other, while the train moves to its destination, mindless of several halts and stopovers. I wanted to ask you numerous questions I kept in my head since the day we met — maybe the likes of ‘what is it like living as an outsider in a distant land’ or maybe I should just wait for you to candidly share the answers to my questions but it never happened, and without force, “I always want to win in life” were the only words you said. I took it as an answer to all my questions.
Every time in between meals, interrupted by a call, “My mother”, you say. It takes a hit inside me how sad would it be not seeing the person who brought you to this world, hopeful for a future that would be kind to her children. I remembered my mom, my parents, my grandmother. You welcomed me to your modest home notwithstanding what’s left of you, and I realized how people could still be generous despite life’s bittersweet bids.
To return the kindness, what I only had was my paper and pen, I wrote the words I thought I could possibly articulate, and connected what my current emotional state was to expressing how gratitude overflowed in spite of restricted time the cosmos had prearranged, not.
“I want to hear your voice reading it so I can remember”, were your parting words as you asked me to read the letter. Maybe, just maybe, meeting you in this lifetime was necessary for me to choose the road I was afraid to take this year. Just knowing a person like you exist, and continuously lives in a world perpetually finding a balance between good and evil; generosity and selfishness; love and hate — you are a gift. You were my plot twist.
Wherever you are, you will forever be remembered.
