Return
Be careful what you wish for.
At one point in our lives, we hope, we wish for something to return. A fleeting moment, a memorable night out, a valuable device. Or a person.
When we yearn for things, or people, to return, what we really want is to turn back time, to relive a particular moment, to stop the clock and relish with delight a wonderful memory. But when things do return, when relished moments happen again, we do not simply relive the moment — we create new memories, and subsequently, albeit unintentionally, we rewrite the past.
The concept of reoccurrence, of return, is perhaps just wishful thinking. There are many opportunities that only open once, many events that cannot be repeated, many things that cannot be fixed or replaced, and people whose return are impossible.
And the implausibility of return oftentimes closes our minds to the possibility of the impossible; not letting us see that there remains a fraction of a chance for reappearance. Once deemed impossible, the practicality of the situation overwhelms us, and convinces us to simply shrug off all remaining possibilities and move on.
Such state of mind is the cause of surprise, or in graver instances, shock. For if things we deemed impossible would happen, if people who we thought we lost would reappear, our minds cannot readily accept such incident, for it challenges facts that we have already established in our systems and breaks down the truth that we have learned to accept and believe in for so long.
That’s how I felt when you returned. You were like the early monsoon rains, an unbelievable occurrence in the sweltering tropical summer. You returned. Out of nowhere, without prior notice.
“Hello,” you greeted, in your usual uncanny self, with your wide grin spanning the width of your weather-stained face — a face that I have long yearned for. For a moment, I was not able to talk. Is this real, I asked myself. You kept on grinning.
It has been exactly a year and a half since I last saw you, in the dark streets of Manila, after watching a film in one of the rundown movie houses in the inner city. After that, you disappeared. No goodbyes, and not even a single piece of information since that day.
For some months, I tried searching. But I failed to find any clues leading to you. By the fourth month, I gave up. And I let you slide into the back of my head, along with all the renegade nights we spent together.
And now, out of nowhere, here you stand, recounting to me all the bizarre adventures you have had this past year. I cannot concentrate on what you were saying, as your chapped lips and your distinct new accent confused me.
“And what do you do now?” you asked.
“I write a column,” I said. And you fell silent.
In that silence, I realized what was wrong. You cannot just return for you have no room in my life anymore. Or so I think. I gave out a loud sigh and told you I have a bus to catch.
Be careful what you wish for, I said to myself, as I walked pass you, and past the lamp post that cast an eerie yellow glow to your sunburnt skin.
{Credit: Delfin Mercado, March 2012}
