Far and Near, Or the Language of Distance

“What is Far?”

“Far is the distance between our lips that, I’m afraid, may never kiss again. It is the space between your Tokyo and my Manila, and the minutes and hours that have bloomed into eleven years, like a flower thirsty for the rain and sun,” I said. “What is Near?”

“Near,” she said, “Near is the distance that all hearts need to cross. It is the space between your hand and my hand, which is quite like the ocean between us. The seas have different names but they are the same waters. Wherever we are, Near is the day after eleven years of waiting.”

“But Far is the sound of a phone call, the ringing at the other end of the line, the dial tone after we have emptied our hearts with our words. It is my I Miss You for your How Are You.”

“Yet Near is your voice that I remember very well. It is your every sigh, too, and every unspoken word, every second that you are silent I might as well be deaf.”

“I will talk then for as much as you would like me to.”

“When does - ” she paused “ - when does Far end?”

“It started when you left, therefore it ends when you return,” I said. “Where does Near start?”

“It always starts wherever you are.”

“I am where you once were,” I said.

“And so you are Near.”

“Which is just as Far.”

“But not for long,” she said.

I thought I heard the rain over the phone. “Is hope a good thing?”

“It is,” she said. “Most of the time, it is.”

“Like six days a week.”

“Yes.”

“Except,” I said, “except for that one day that feels like forever, when everything feels - ”

“ - Far,” she said, “the way Sunday has to wait because Monday has just begun.”

“And yet no day skips its turn, so they say.”

“Which is why all things have their proper time, no matter how Far they seem.”

“So there is hope.”

“There is,” she said. “Trust your heart the way I have trusted mine all these years. The heart knows the things that are worth the wait.”

“Maybe I can wait for another day,” I said, “but I cannot see myself waiting for another you.”

She was silent for a while, then she said, “You sound so Near I can almost hold you.”

I wanted to hold her so bad I wish I can telephone myself from Manila all the way to Tokyo. I could hear her breathe. “Near can never be that Far, right?”

“Yes,” she said, “never that Far.”

“Even if...”

“Even if?”

“Even if sometimes Near is not near enough?”

“I... I don’t know,” she said, “I won’t know until you’re here. Or I’m there.”

“One or the other. There is hope.”

“There is,” she said.

“Wait for me.”

“I will.”