Déjà vu
(PART 2)

By Emmanuelle

II. The soul mirrored in your eyes,
it is one the same.
To continue where we left off the last time . . . when Bien and Aimee were eleven, they were parted. Lighten up, people. These were kids, little kids! No romance here yet, just unexplained fondness for, and closeness with each other.
In fifth grade, Aimee was diagnosed with the possibility of developing a rheumatic heart. At the time, except for a very few exceptional cases, children afflicted with the disease usually do not survive beyond their twentieth year. Aimee was bundled off to a place where there was less chance of exposure to infections.
Their early friendship would freeze on hold until they will be in their early twenties. By that time, Bien would go through a long list of light and serious relationships. Aimee went through none, though a lot of crushes crashed her way.
When Aimee was in medical proper at UP-PGH, she happened to hear Bien’s full name mentioned by a friend. That friend had just retrieved a package sent through him. She snapped up from her nap. It was a sign . . . the beginning of their second wind.

Bien’s first cousins who were Aimee’s school friends too, would learn she was taking up medicine, and where. They would visit her. And they would bring Bien and Aimee together again.
Aimee would have her first and only boyfriend. For the second time around. In this lifetime. Therefore, to have joined then, join hence.
To Aimee, it was like . . . coming home.

III. Been here before!
Pot never stepped her dainty foot on that island. Not ever.
Actually, she was a reluctant guest of friends who were native to the island. She just wanted to go somewhere, anywhere, that summer, just not there in the city that never sleeps.
So, she took a 20-hour ride, on an air-conditioned ship with fast-food service as in the malls. Goldilocks had a booth of her own. Also booths for computer games. And a wall lined with sockets for quick battery charging of cellphones. Also, rooms where men drank and sang with karaokes blasting loud and clear, so punishingly hard to the ears.
There was no running away, from the city that never sleeps.
On that island, bliss! There was no electricity! Everything was quiet to a murmur. No blaring sounds, no glaring sights. Just the sea, the mountains, the wind, palms and trees, pedal bikes for transit, and ati-atihan for events.
Pot and her friends stayed in a summerhouse, not really ghostly ancient. Just faded paint and creaking floors. First night, they slept in the masters’ bedroom, weary backs on floor mats smelling of fresh grass. Let Pot tell the story:
Half of the night, we told each other stories, some for tears, some to scare. Then, I looked up the ceiling. Suddenly, I felt goosepimples rise behind my neck, up my arms.
I don’t know how or when, but I’ve been here before! That ceiling has a room beyond. Often before, I’ve climbed the walls on agile fingers and toes. I’ve pushed aside that squared door, and entered the darkness beyond. These eyes quickly accustomed themselves to the dark, though, and I remembered I picked items from clothes neatly piled in a corner. I changed quickly then exited the same way as someone called my name. The carabao has gotten loose again.
But, I’ve never set foot on this place before! This is my first day, first night here! Ever. This lifetime.
And as I turned deaf to my friends’ voices, eyes crossed so close to a faint, I noticed the tenants’ daughter enter the room. She takes off her slippers, sidles along the wall, careful to step on spaces unoccupied by our bodies. She proceeds to climb up the wall, like batman, on agile fingers and toes. She pushes aside the squared ceiling door; she disappears for a while. She comes out with a new change of dress.
Next day, I walked a half day, then hitched a bike ride to the nearest seaport, two towns away. I was going home. From a home of a past lifetime.
(To be continued.)

(For past columns, click http://sundaypunch.prepys.com/archives/category/opinion/feelings/)

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