By Jing Villamil

 

(a monosyllabic prosepoem)

WHEN you gave up this fight, the sun the moon the stars sighed out with you. They still shine up there; of course, they would. But to my eyes, their lights had dimmed; to their ears I shall hum no more the songs of my heart. There . . . they just ceased to be.

That smile you saw last on my face meant “come back to me”. I must have been blind with tears. I did not see your eyes tell “I might not”. I thought I felt on my cheeks a wisp of your kiss. I thought not the whiff of warmth on my skin was your hug as you start to fade. As you ceased to be . . . here.

The hands of time had moved on; but I have not. I can not.

I feel you, I see you, I hear you still! You are here with me. In me! You did not cease to be.

(Author’s Note: The “you” in the poem is one of our 48,000 plus, and the world’s millions out there, who lost their battle with CoVid-19. The number is not mere statistics; they are family and friends loved, missed by countless many. Except for the presence of the masked frontliners, their end must have been lonely and alone. And that image shall leave us forever mournful, deeply carved-out. Oh, and the war is not over yet.)

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