The Third Tale! (A monosyllabic prosepoem)

By Jing Villamil


SHE dreams of him still. How could she not?

In her dream, she was there, when he shrugged off his cage of bones and thin flesh and tired black-blue veins. She dreamed she was there when they tore out the tubes and all which clicked and swished for him, to bide him more time. These could not do much more. She dreamed she saw his eyes flick when he felt he sniffed he gasped in pure air from stale. For one last time, he must have felt how it was to be let go, to be free.

And she dreamed that she screamed his name, that she screeched so loud so hard her lips split where they meld and blood joined the twin streams of tears from her eyes. She reached out her arms and the rest of her flew out to him.

In her dream she bends to his numbed self. She cups his face. She asks: “What shall I do, what can I do?” She hugs him, all of him she holds dear. And she lets her tears fall where they may. They are warmth to what is near-stone cold.

“See, hear me! I am here! I will not leave you. Look at me, do not tear off your gaze. Your heart sees, it speaks to me. You are here in me. I am there in you.” He does not tear off his gaze; his eyes stay with her. Till he sighs. And he goes on his way.

From her dream she wakes. She weeps. She sobs. She keens in grief. For him. For them. For how it was, for how she wished it could have been.

From grief to grief, there was this scene that was not part of her dream. Through the glass, she had seen them wrap him neat, like a gift to the gods. And then they zipped him up, to lock in tight what must not be let out. Oh, but he had done that; he had let his self out! As slow but as soon as he breathed out his last!

No. He did not feel the fire. Not a wisp, not a singe.

She dreams of him still. How could she not?

(Dedicated to those who lost loveones to Covid19. To Ma’am Cecille Guidote, fellow SPCM grad and PETA player. She survived the disease, but her husband, Senator Heherson Alvarez, did not.)

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