EMIRA
JUNE 13, 2022
A Final Letter For Memory
Memory,
How could life be so cruel to us? Even if I think about it a million times since the day we found that your shell left this planet, even if I think about it again and again, I always come up with the same answer: you don't deserve to die, we don't deserve to be separated.
Memory, I always remember how much you didn't want me to cry, but can you let me drown into my tears now as I watch the time and count the remaining hours I'm seeing you? Last night, I am surpressing my cries because History might woke up finding out that I'm crying because of you, but now, now that your open casket ceremony is starting before your approaching time of burial, can you let me cry as hard as I can, as loud as I can, more than your mom and dad, more than our little History does?
"Emira, get up."
That's what I hear for I think, tenth time now from my mom. She's already fully dressed in white blouse and high-waisted jeans, beside her is dad, also fully get-up carrying our three-year-old History in his arms, probably wondering why I don't move and get out of my bedroom.
"Can you give me another five minutes?" I asked as I watch myself in the mirror, remembering of how you used to comb my long hair while telling funny stories as we laugh together. Thinking how you always kiss me in front of the mirror and says that you love me whether I can see my reflection or not.
"You've been telling that for almost three hours now, Emira. You need to move your ass out of this bedroom," mom insisted and grabbed History's small backpack which I prepared.
That hits me again. I suddenly remembered how you always argue with me with History's clothes because you always think his recent new clothes are too big for him, only to sink in to your mind that it actually fits fine when you try fitting those clothes for him. You can't accept the fact that your History is growing up very fast, you always say before that time flies so fast.
Time indeed flies so fast, Memory. The last time I checked, you are sleeping by my side, hugging me in your arms while I hug History that used to sleep in between us, now, I'm going to sleep alone in the bed that used to be ours. Who will hug me now if it's not you, Memory? Your ghost will be just fine, as long as it's you, it will be fine. You are my warmth, Memory, you are my warmth.
"Come on, child. Your husband is waiting for you."
I looked at my dad who puts History down and approached me. His eyes are fully of symphaty for me. It's so painful to see that, Memory, it's so painful. The kind of pain that will never subside, the kind of wound that'll never heal, the kind of missing piece that will never return because you have taken it with you.
Dad held my hand and helped me stand. "Memory is waiting for you. He can't go on without you, so let's go, hmm?" he whispered to me.
Why are they being like this, Memory? I was trying to surpress my cries because like what I said to you, I don't want History to witness how weak his mother is, but when dad said those words to me, when he said that you're waiting for me, the walls I'm trying to build for days automatically collapsed just like how I collapsed into my father's arms and cried. I cried, and cried, and cried, and cried like there will be nothing left in the remaining water in my body system, not even a single drop of it.
History would probably freak out, but it's kind of surprising that I found myself saying in the back of my mind that it's the least of my concern now. Am I being a bad mother to our son now, Memory? Does grieving my loss will make me a bad mother to our little History? If I let my emotions take over me because of how much it's painfully hard for me to accept that you're now long gone, will that make me a bad mother to History? If I see you in History, if I see your face in our son, if everytime I see History, it was you that I remember, will that make me a bad mother to him?
Memory, why did you left us alone? You said that you'll come back for dinner, but why did you come back for funeral? Memory, why did you left me loving you like this, planning with you like this, looking forward to the future with you like this?
"Emi..." dad called out and caressed my hair as if comforting me but nothing seems to calm me down.
It was you, Memory, that I lost. It wasn't you that can't go on without me, it was me that I can't go on without you. I can't go home without you, Memory, you are my home.
I want you to stay...
I want you to stay...
I want you to stay...
Memory, my love, please come back to me...
"'Pa, ang sakit! Ang sakit-sakit!" I cried.
Love,
Emira
YOU ARE READING
MEMORY
Short StoryCOMPLETED DRAMA Epistolary In which Memory, a soldier, wrote letters for his wife. written by: sevenchlorines credits to the rightful owner of the book cover used. under Project Finish (@PFinishIII)
