Bally shoes

By Virginia J. Pasalo

IT was a bright sunny morning. For the first time in a very long time, we were together, you were wearing red, I forgot what I was wearing, or if I wore anything. Although guarded, strange that I felt so comfortable with you. I was expecting us to eat in an ordinary restaurant but you insisted to bring me to the restaurant on top of a building because you told me, I have to do my executive report. I was surprised that you knew I had work to do, but I wondered, do I need a restaurant to do a report? I hesitated but you insisted, and I readily agreed.

On the curve, as we walked leisurely, a cab suddenly was in front of you and you stood there, he did not budge. Instead he moved the cab forward pushing your foot. You backed off a little and he moved forward again, pushing your foot once more, hitting the tip of your Bally shoes. That was the last straw for you, you went to his side of the vehicle and hammered your fist on the cab’s roof which burst the roof right on top of the driver’s head. Strange that the action did not draw blood from your delicate hands.

You closed the gate, so that the driver could not escape. A truck parked in front of the taxi making its escape impossible. On your way back, you were distracted upon seeing the vendors. I heard you arguing with them, about how they short-changed you in your share of the produce in your farm as I called your name out. I called again but your voice drowned everything else. I wondered about the cab driver who hurt your foot, if he will run away or he will wait for you and engage you in a fight. He looked at me for one quick moment and then shifted his gaze to the ground as he headed back to his cab. I noticed he had soft eyes, a complete contrast to the aggression in his hands. I called you again, you were shouting still, this time, you were so angry, you were crying, like a child. You were staring, horrified, at a tear on your Bally shoes. You forgot about the taxi driver. You forgot about breakfast at the rooftop. You did not hear me calling your name. The bright sun slowly inched its way in between the thick canopy of trees, drying the avalanche of your tears.

And then I woke up.

 

A bench in my heart

there is a bench in my heart

where you and i dance

in the moonlight

where you whisper

and laugh

and where you cry,

and rage,

with or without the tears

 

talk to me

about falling down

or falling over, someone.

 

i can listen

and tell you, too

a story about falling,

from a guava tree

from an aratiles tree

a kaimito tree

falling into a ravine

falling from the precipice

of a waterfall

or just falling, for you.

 

come to me, my love,

take me to the bench

in your heart

i want to drink the moonlight

and tempt the fireflies to dance.

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