LAST WORDS A Prose Poem (Monosyllabic)

By Jing Villamil

There are true-to-life tales one can not just let go. These, too, are seeds from which think-thoughts grow.

She had said: “I will wait for you till the end of time”. Her voice and her pink, full lips as she said these words, kept him sane as he worked in the heat of the sand and the sun. There were, of course, the texts and the calls, but none beat real – the face he can touch and her voice to his ear as she mouthed soft: “I will wait for you till the end of time.”

She must not have known how to count years till the end of time. At least, she could count up to two. At the end of two years, he came home just in time . . . to watch her wed his best friend. There must be a law to things (and loves!) that friends can share!

There is, too, this tale of a pair whose paths crossed when milk had not yet dried from their lips. It was a first love too young, too raw. Years from then, when next they met, they picked-up from whence they left-off, as if time had not paused.

Though, there is this – they came from two sides of the fence. Through the years, they thought their love would bring the fence down. It did not; the fence still stood as strong (and as bad!). When pride arched its brows high, they let go of their love.

She still cries out in pain, but no tears come. When asked why she had not yet wept her loss, she says: “I still have his name in my heart. I shall weep when it is there no more.”

Then there are those who still grieve for the lost loved ones. Now and then, she or he would touch a dear face glassed-in and framed on the wall. She or he sighs: “soon, dear one, even sooner” and she or he walks on past fast, the heart pains too much, though “long hath time passed”.

She or he fails to see, to hear the lips move in the glass: “Take your time; I am not gone! I am here, with you!”

And there is she, who had prayed to Him, for him who used to be her man, to let her be. He had said all the right and wrong words to cut her deep. He had said his last, he had left her, he had gone on. None now to draw more blood. “May he find his peace where he may be; I had long found mine. Let us both now – be free.”

Then there was this aunt. She cleaned, she cooked, she served. She did not stop to rest. For pause, she talked. On and on, she talked. Of all her ills. That she felt sick from day one to six. No one took her word she was ill, for she worked and worked and not take a rest. They loved her to bits, but just the same, they ran as soon as they kissed and hugged her Hi! Or Bye!

She would huff and puff where they left her. And she would work and talk on and not rest until she was red and fat in the face. Not one of them was there when she took her tired last breath.

Where she is now, Up There or Near To There – one is more than sure she must be at the TOP SHRIEK of her voice: “I told you and I told you and I told you I was sick, did I not?!”

(Author’s Note: the original Last Words was written & published 12 years ago. It had since been revised & published 3 times.)

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