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Friday, September 14, 2012

Point of View

The day is breaking, colors bursting into the wide, open sky, there’s orange and yellow, mixed with white and blue, making it so vibrant and calm, clearing the darkness from the night before, revealing more vivid colors – green, brown, and red – her eyes absorbing every hue.

Sipping the strong flavor of hot cocoa from a familiar cup, she is embraced by the chilly wind around her; she shivers once in a while. She notices her shadow and is reminded that she is alone. She takes a deep, soothing breath of the fresh aroma of leaves, cool as the morning dew. She gets on her feet, acquainted to the ground, and scans the old, narrow road – torn and tattered by time – for the letters I.B.L. then traces them with her cold hands while she recalls: the grubby construction worker who threw an angry look at her when she carved her initials on the newly-cemented road, in front of their little abode – her castle on Earth. Picture this: at one end, the lovely sea stretches in a picturesque, panoramic view. At night, the stars in the sky and the fishermen’s boats from the sea would twinkle and sparkle at her, always, like the little gems of her Barbie. She had the most magical nights. At the other end, the beautiful Isarog stands so near she could almost touch it from their window. Some days, she would just stare at the striking mountain, memorize its figure. She sees it from her school, from the park, from the church, from almost everywhere. She thinks the mountain follows her every time. Her days were magical too.

Now she starts hearing chortling and giggling sounds coming from the shabby house. She takes her last sip from the cup – the cocoa drink is cold now – and leaves it empty. She starts walking toward the pleasant noise. Her feet could fly in anticipation.

Halfway to the screen door, four bubbly angels come bursting, ready to throw their arms at her. They are radiant and glowing, beaming with happiness, delighted upon her arrival. She embraces them one by one this time, while she figures out how much height they have grown or how much weight they have gained or lost. She pats their heads, and smells their shampoo. She notices their haircut too. But enough of those – she shifts her attention to the wall and fixes her look on the picture of a young lady whose smile was the sweetest and loveliest she has ever seen. Her black hair, almost touching her shoulders, draws attention to her face – her fair, unblemished skin glows in simplicity. Her eyes are small but expressive, and her lips are pink as a rose.

Slowly, she paces her step to the kitchen; her feet starting to get numb. The kitchenwares are arranged on the cupboard – untouched. The lady in the picture is gone.

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