The Boy and the Weather Called La Niña: An Episode of Body Language

It rained today just like the days before, and the clouds washed him over, his shirt clinging to his body, the fortress of the language he has only truly ever known, never the words that he writes that can only reach not quite as far no matter how hard he stretches his imagination, contrary to what people would make him believe. He is not a poet, never has been. He is just drenched in rain, his body tired and weary. That is all there is to him. Or perhaps just a little more, but not as much.

True to form, his body language will betray his words, revealing in them what he truly means the way light would shed off the shadows that embrace him like an armor for a skin:

the I hope you're telling the truth for every I don't believe you whenever he looks away discreetly, shying away from the prospect of revelation, except that the depth of the gratitude in his heart will swell all the way up to his eyes, so much so that he cannot help but just sigh as he looks at you, which is his inward acceptance of the things that can hardly be, though he is thankful all the same. There is no relief to be had in kindness being few and far between these days, yet in this mess that is called life he easily discovers light wherever there is darkness, to the point that there are things that might as well be the start of something grand, something where kindness could push all the way above ground with more than enough conviction than one is willing to offer, germinate like a seed nascent with life, and finally meet the sun, and yet this you will hardly notice in him;

the glances he would steal despite the certainty of contempt, his eyes unmoving except for the momentary blink, everyone else busy with what they think keeps them alive these days, not realizing that what sustains them is the same thing that will kill them, and their judgment will fall on him swiftly, calling him out for the furtive nature of what he does, but glance he would anyway, because fuck it, living has never been a crime, and such a thief that only takes away what his eyes will allow him to hold captive can never be found guilty in medias res, because the crime is extinguished by the time the deed is done as if it never happened;

the fingers that would brush against his own will mark him like an imprint for the rest of his life, or maybe what little is left of it. Those gentlest and slightest of all touches, whether by accident or on purpose, they will clobber his senses, turning the screw in his head a little loose one bit more, his brain cast under a spell he finds challenging to name because prudence and recklessness never mix like oil is to water, prompting him to drink more water than he should, because his throat is dry and damn will she ever wet her lips with mine he mumbles to himself, and while some things he will forget and most things he will remember, he will not find what you said he is trying to look for. Here or elsewhere, it matters not. Hands are meant for holding, they say, but no one can ever hold the rain.

And so, La Niña made it rain today just like the days before. It is the weekend and the boy could just walk all the way home and weather the storm, the language of and in his body waiting for the clearance that the rain could bring so that he could talk a little less, write a little less, and do a little bit more. By the time he gets home, he would have nothing to write about, talk about, and all that is left will be body language.

But this, it seems, is just the beginning. Or maybe not, clarity to dwindle down to the point of confusion.

Tender Feet

To the child, the love of my life, who will never be born from the womb of the love I will never forget: I would have been your dad, but please forgive me just the same. These tired hands have earned a living for most of my life, and they would have easily carried you to sleep on so many nights, but all that is left of the strength they now have is one that can even barely cling on to hope, a burden so heavy to bear for those who have nothing more to lose. These tired hands, rest they know not, but today until God knows when, they will be just as restless. I did what I could, and I have loved you even when you were still in my dreams, a place where you will now forever be, of which my weary eyes can only breach whenever I close them. There you will blossom on the days that will never dawn and the nights that will never follow, I never to witness you become who you would have wanted to be, you never to walk this earth with tender feet.

I tried to save myself from myself, from the monster it has been growing into, a cynic who could only see the wretched hours and days revealed as months and years of peril. I gave it my all to undo what I have slowly become, but it was too late. My heart was anchored on all the wrong places, and they took root deep where I will never be able to reach them, far beyond my grasp with what little I know. I never knew how it was to be a father, nor exactly why I desired to be one, but the thought gripped my heart as though my life depended on it, held hostage where escape never stood a chance. And in the sorry state where I dwell, made to confess by the circumstance where I find myself now, I say these things not as an excuse, but as a belated attempt to make me remember, or so that I may never forget, that once there was a man who could only love so much.

But if alibis and dreams were to count for the many times when I imagined you, I would have drifted too far and lost count, like a boat that could only depend on the stars for navigation. The happy days I have created in my mind linger like an aftertaste that was never there to begin with, and I search for them with much yearning that the more I look for them the lonelier I get, which is the same thing I would have told her, and which she probably already knows by now. These days when I walk I bow my head as if there is nothing more to look forward to, my shoulders carrying a cross nobody sees, recognized only by those who have suffered a similar fate. How many of us are left, I cannot say. But we crowd the streets where you would have walked beside me, your tiny hand holding on to mine, never having to worry about time and how cruel it can get, because where there are no memories there is nothing to remember. And so I continue to dream, until I find you there.

A Lesson From Her Father, The Etymologist

“Go on, tell me, papa,” Emily says.

The Etymologist confides that Difficult and Hard are words that are similar but not the same. “On the one hand,” he says, “the word Difficult takes its origin from the Latin difficultas, which is an expression for the reversal (dis-) of ability (-facultas). Thus, what is difficult requires some level of skill; mere willingness is not enough. Practice is indispensable. Mastery is the goal. Ultimately, something is difficult because it demands skill.”

“On the other hand,“ the Etymologist continues, “the word Hard comes from the Old English heard, which means something is carried on with great exertion. Ergo, what is hard demands effort and commitment; no amount of skill can guarantee success with the struggle. Perseverance is vital”.

“This, Emily, is why it is often said that it is difficult to say Hello, and hard to say Goodbye.” The Etymologist looks at Emily, weariness growing in his eyes.

“So remember, young one,” he continues between suppressed coughs, “saying Hello takes skill, but saying Goodbye begs commitment.”

Emily smiles at the thought. She stares at the window, the setting sun pouring its light through the curtains, parting the shadows before spilling on the wooden floor. “Now tell me something about Hello and Goodbye, papa.”

The Etymologist leafs through his handwritten notes, drags a finger across the lines of text, stops, and resumes his reading. “The word Hello is a 19th century variant of the earlier hollo, which is related to holla, which, in turn, is from the French holà — an order to stop or cease.” He pauses to fix his reading glasses.

“An order,” Emily says.

The Etymologist nods. “So it is my love -- an order, and orders can only come from those who are in a position of power, whatever form it may be. And so, saying Hello is actually a blatant affirmation of imbalanced relations. To say Hello is to claim the upper hand, to assume the throne of authority.” He returns to the notes. “Meanwhile, Goodbye is a contraction of Good be with ye. Basically, it is a salutation in parting.”

“Is a goodbye final?”

“It is. Or at least it should be. Telling someone that the good be with them implies a sense of finality. The parting is the end, and you never know what is ahead for the person you are wishing goodness for, which is why you desire that good things come their way. From the point of goodbye, everything becomes unknown simply because there is nothing more between two people.”

“Can I say goodbye each day papa?”

“You can, of course, Emily, but it defeats the point of saying goodbye. The salutation loses its sense of permanence because there is no parting.”

“What happens, then, between Hello and Goodbye?”

The Etymologist glances at Emily. Faced with a question that has besieged him for years, one that has brought him to the lonely circumstance of raising a child who has never felt the warmth of a mother, the absence lingering before him like a shadow that stretches far into the night, reaching into his dreams until it crowds the sunrise as if to block the sun, he finally says, “Ah, that is where the magic is, my love. There are only so many words to say. All my life I have learned them, but what I have written can take you no farther than where you began. Everything else you will have to find out for yourself, for better or for worse.”