A POW speaks!

By Emmanuelle

SHE IS A prisoner, but of a war that is not fought with the violence of the blunt chop or the bunched fists, or of fingers expertly wielding knives, firing guns, or lobbing bombs.

No, she is not a prisoner of that bloody sordid sort. She is a prisoner of a war more simple than those and so nearer to home. A war where the winners and the losers are as obvious as flaming uling splashed out with water, or a fiery log stumped down with sand.

Like the singer-turned-poet who moaned about being imprisoned by words, she too moans she shares the same cell.

A cell of words unspoken. She loves him but she fears to let free of those words. She might lose him more, even lose him forever. Better to be around him as a friend than a jilted lover. She will have him with her longer, even have him forever. Those words shall indeed stay unspoken.

A cell of words gone missing. Asawak, I am sorry the kids had eaten all the supper off the table. They were so hungry, you know how growing children are. Don’t hug me, I am so tired.

She bits her lips not to scream out: you come home not only too late last night but too early for the next day what do you expect waiting for you, supper and breakfast and I?

This one is for the books. Husband shouts: Oy, heat water for my coffee, heat more for my bath. Press my shirt, shine my shoes, bring out my fresh socks. A cell of long-forgotten words: honey, how was your day? Salamat for keeping me all fresh, and pressed and shiny. Tonight, I treat you to a night out in the city.

A cell full of words said but was not heard by the one who should. Of words drowned in noise or in dead silence. You are so dear to me, I worry about you so much please tell me you are alright, I fear for your health your safety, oh I am pained by your neglect of me. And the face you were just pleading to had turned bored, you are now looking at a head of hair rapidly retreating, fleeing from the room, until you are left with the patient stupid walls leaning over, waiting to share back a wisdom all their own. Itogtog mo ulo mo dine sa dingding hane.

Of so many words and all of them wrong. Of the right words that had been said but all in the wrong time and the wrong places. Oh yes Mom, Dad, nursing is just the right course for me imagine the dollars, the pounds, the euros just waiting to be plucked from the hands of the plump the rich and the sick patients with skins not our color. But if not for the blood, the germs the graveyard shifts, the lonely homesick years waiting for planes homing homing home, everything would be just perfectly fine. The truth is: I would love, though, to be the artist I truly am painting etching your lovely loved faces, doesn’t matter if I starve, beg for alms from the plump the rich the sick patrons the color of my skin and the language of my tongue.

Ibagsak ang diktadora and she volunteers her parents for a good start.

Of words misphrased, lost in translation, misunderstood. You say that you admire me, you like me. That sometimes you even want me, desire me. And after all we had done and gone through, you dare to say you do not love me? And what the heck do you mean by that? Wala as in nothing or wala as in there is? And if I clunked you on the head now would you dare to ask Akin? As in why? I tell you why! You listen why! You are akin, mine mine mine mine!

A cell filled with a litany of words hiding their equivalent opposite meanings. A symphony of twists and swishesand false line-openers. And always the burning, crushing need to come out with the sharp words to cut someone anyone in two, to wrecked pieces, to irredeemable shreds. Words uttered too late, words choked in one’s throat, words swallowed and buried and mourned. Never got to say I hate you, get away from me from all that is me, I’m sorry, I never meant to hurt you, I am here always waiting for you. Come back. Come home. I am yours. Take me away, bibi!

Mahaba po ang listahan. Hindi po ito hanggang dito na lamang, maraming salamat po sa inyong walang anuman. The list ends not here, thank you for nothing.

Excuse me ngarud. While I stalk the width and length of my cell of words.

(Readers may reach columnist at jingmil@yahoo.com. For past columns, click http://sundaypunch.prepys.com/archives/category/opinion/feelings/
For reactions to this column, click “Send MESSAGES, OPINIONS, COMMENTS” on default page.)

Share your Comments or Reactions

comments

Powered by Facebook Comments