To have gone and done all that . . .

By Emmanuelle

THEIR first two meetings showed how far and distant Em had held off the world at bay.

Since those fateful days, never; forever hence on, not.

Em’s government office is spacious and sunny, enclosed in four walls of glass. Ceiling is brick-red, and the beams and pillars are painted pink and cream. Furniture gleams metallic than woodshine, and five-legged swivel chairs tuck into, then roll from desk to files to freer spaces.

Em’s office is all cold, sanitized surfaces.

On her very first day, Em would immediately turn all three-office computers with backs against one glass wall. This then, will be her private public space. There she would sit with her unbending back in full view. She would swivel and scoot herself  from one machine to the other throughout the duration of her co-terminus years, her  long-nailed  fingers clicking on three sets of keyboards, peering at the three openly trusting monitor faces, breathing softly in symphony with the ticking of three rectangular boxes of artificial intelligence.

One would think, Em is not one distinct from the metals and plastics and mirrors and glass. Here, one will have another think coming.

What distinguishes the office, and the entire building, from all other government buildings constructed within the recent frenzied years for anything infra, is the unbelievable view seen through both its all-glass front and back. One wonders whether one is forever looking out, or out is forever looking in.

From her semi-corner, Em will write the poems and the stories  that sometimes flutter through the glass and the equally glassy doors on unseen wings. Some lines and plots, though, do step in on humble earthy feet or arrogant high heels. Words that rhyme or miss a beat can be sorted out from the hums and the whispers occurring less than an inch away from her cherished space.

More than the above, through the uncluttered glass wall above her machines, she  catches fractions and wholes of lives rushing, strutting, waltzing, creeping, tip-toeing, dropping by. Em’s boss on the other side of the glass would deal with all of these lives, each one differently from the previous or the next. Most times, her boss would merely listen with a head nod or a shake. One would have to look hard and long to catch so slight a smile dimpling a cheek.

Here, in these sometime quiet most times frantic place of earth in heaven or heaven on earth, she first meets Arrah, she who tries to make laws to humanize a city gone dusty and smokey and gray.

The boss signals Em in. The boss introduces Em to Arrah. Arrah’s fame is not alien to Em; but Em is truly alien to Arrah. Foreigner even. The boss says, but Arrah, you have read of Em. She is Em of the other name.

Arrah’s eyes widen. Her shake tightens. I read you every Sunday. And my father too! We even tug-a-war with your page!

Two years later, Arrah would remember. And they would meet again.

Arrah would call. And text. And Em would ask herself: who, what, why?

Days after, Em would walk into a cool homey pastry house. She would meet Arrah for the second time. Arrah of the light but sprightly self, twinkly animated eyes. And words that think, from its conception to its birth.

Arrah says, I have passed through a decade of a lifetime, and this lifetime ends six months from now. What is sadder than sad than to have done all that good, to be gone, and to be remembered for none? Like the women whose steps I have followed after?

Or words to the like.

Six months from now, Dagupeñas shall read about Arrah, girl-woman, and the equally distinguished women of her ilk. It will be written by a woman, and enriched first and foremost by women raised to uphold the wisdom of the specie.

Heroines.

Back to Homepage

Share your Comments or Reactions

comments

Powered by Facebook Comments