Auring

"Aalis na ako..."
 
I croaked as I walked pass her on my way to the kitchen door. She was cooking dinner. She glanced at me then looked at the two plastic grocery bags dangling from my arms-- all my worldly possessions in two wrinkled used plastic shopping bags. I must have looked stupid; pathetic even.
 
"'di ka na babalik..."
 
It wasn't a question. It was more of a conclusion. The house was empty but for the two of us; everybody had gone to Sunday mass; the only light that was on was at the kitchen; her voice though soft and gentle echoed on the walls. There is so much unsaid; there had been years and years of mutual silence between us; so much time has gone that now there is neither time left nor a suitable language to even begin to talk about the things we could have talked about. Now we only talk in syllables.
 
Three years ago I asked her to give me her blessing and allow me to go on my own. She refused. I asked her the same question every day for a week and each time she said it was not yet my time to go.This time she wasn't stopping me.

"'di na..."
 
I took a step toward the door and for a moment lingered on its threshold. The horizon was a swirling collage of dark blue and gray. Dusk slowly blurring into night. The night breeze was cool. The shadows hunting down what little light lingered after sunset. A chill that had nothing to do with the December air stole over me. Then a sharp sting swept over my face and a wisp of cool breeze slithered down my spine. Random thoughts were spinning in my head-- it's the end of a decade; next month will be a new year; what will I eat for dinner tonight; it will be her birthday in two weeks; so many questions; there were no answers. I held my breath, expecting to feel some cord draw tight on my neck, holding me, binding me. But there was no tether, no lurch. I took a deep breath and walked into the gathering darkness.

 

"Good-bye, Mommy".
 


In Memoriam: Aurora; 30 December 1932 - 16 August 2007