And then you told me . . .

By Emmanuelle

The setting is just right – a table for two out in the patio, table swathed in white, roses and wine.  Dim light from a shaded lamp. Faint glow from a near-full moon. Your fingers entwine with his across  bowls of nuts and cheese.  

And then he tells you: I do not love you anymore.

Your mouth opens. And hangs there. So does your tongue.

Your mind tells you: Slap, girl. Not him! Slap yourself awake! You are disgustingly hanging out there for all to see.

This setting is as equally perfect. The fireplace casts a warm glow. Just the same, you huddle close on the couch, arms around each other, whispering sweet nothing, breathing same air, his cheek on your head, yours against his chest. You listen to the beats of his heart. You hear the rumbles in his lungs as he starts to mumble. He clears his throat.

And then he tells you: I am getting married tomorrow. And not to you, darling.

Suddenly your head weighs tons. You pass from light to dark, while life drains through the pores of your skin. Minutes, movements, voices creep then sweep by as you remain rooted to a spot. A spot that is all of you, feeling none, feeling all.

A river gushes. Your river of tears. Also of drools and phlegm. You clarify: what, who, how, when? You clarify again: when, how, who, what? You beg for You and I. You plead for You and I. Beg, beg, beg. Please, please, please.

You fight for You and I. Slap, wham, blag.

No one is more blind, more deaf, more dumb than the one who is not. Stone is kinder than the flesh. So go ahead, itaktak mo sa bato ang ulo nimo.  

This scene is too common during the last few months.  You are better than good; you are smart. You aim high; over and above what is average or puny. You shoot for the highest stars – first honors, valedictorian, magna/summa cum laude, manager, corporate president, mayor, congressman, senator, president, etc. If you jumped easily over the hills of your youth, you can hurdle the mountains.

This particular hill, though, stomped you flat. At this point in time, God and man and nature ranged forces against  you going to the top.

And then they tell you: Your jump was just a foot short. It could have been yours.

Your body weighs too heavy. You sink low, lower. Thoughts, words, motions cease. You close your eyes, you clench your fists. Your chest swells, you breathe huge and deep. You burst! Not only with your motions, but you thrash out with your thoughts, your words. You are mad, you are hurt. You will make sure THEY suffer for these.

You go a’courting. From miles and miles away, across an ocean, through dry hungry land. You bring pasalubong and promises. You awe with the bursting health of your presence. You leave with pasalubong and assurances. You are awash with pride and joy. The prize is yours; she is yours.     

And then you are told: She was never yours. As you were never hers.    

You hate. Hate, hate, hate. You never went back. You should have. She could never be yours because you were not hers. You can be, though, if you loved more. She loved. Oh, yes. She did, she does. She gave away the gifts. She kept the promises in her heart.

 Stories of what was but what is not. Of could have been but cannot be. A presence, a relationship, a chance, a future, a possibility – snatched, mislaid, waylaid, turned away, taken out, gambled, lost.

We go back to telling stories. Of life. Of you and me, persevering. Once, I met you and your story here. I will see you everywhere. More often than enough.            

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

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