LOVE. No other name.

Black and White 5

                I opened the door, my father’s depressed aura flooded in.

                Then, I saw a familiar face and a memory came flashing back.

                “…but how come you…you two never want to invite me for a chat?”

                Had he answered that with something like, “Why don’t you come over next Saturday?” or “You’re welcome to come if you wish”, maybe things wouldn’t be happening this way. Maybe I would be the one who would discover why a lot of girls (including my little sister) talked about him so much.

But all he did was watch me walk away.

                I let him. Because that Saturday, I went to the meeting place my sister had described to me in detail so often, although I was unsought. And as I hid behind a not-so-distant tree, I knew that he was not mine. Because of the way he seemed lost in her eyes as they spoke. Because of the way Xieca blushed. I understood that he was not for me, but for my sister.

                I realized that the man in my recurrence was standing in front of me, waiting for me to let him in. I blinked several times, and then faked my enthusiasm as best as I could, “Ishac, welcome.”

~~~~~~~

                Xieca once told me that her sister was the best singer but the worst actress. I ignore Kaytin’s play-acting, “KAYTIN. Tell me. What on earth is happening?”

                She pauses, but decides to stay stern. “Talk to me first. Let me refresh your memory.”

                Refresh my memory? Cool. What was that for? I exclaim, “NO. I have to see Xieca.”

                “Sit down. You’ll have to listen to me first. She asked me to do this,” all the words came tumbling out of her mouth, with them came a little irritation.

                Oh great. What else? What additional shocking, shadowy things did she ask other people to do for her today? Kaytin leads me to the living room and sits down. Still tense, I sat on the chair facing her, a fine little table in between us.

~~~~~~~

                I’ve rehearsed this scene a hundred times in my mind, but no practice could have prepared me for the real thing. I sigh, “Remember the day you met my baby sister? She was crying because of two things: first, I was diagnosed with an illness. Second, she didn’t know how to climb down the tree. She provoked you so you would climb up, in order for her to follow the way you got down, and then she laughed. Do you still remember? ”I comprehended too late, that I had asked such a stupid question. How could he ever forget?

                He seemed amused at my revelation, but he was determined to get this over with as quick as possible, “Of course I do. How could I forget? But that’s not why I’m here—“ I cut in before he gets the chance of leaving his chair.

                The following statements were the hardest to say. So I spoke slowly, as firmly as I could.

                “Listen. How about the tree she asked you to plant? She didn’t let you do that so you wouldn’t have to see her again… she did that so both of you would plant it.” His expression softened.

                “And once she was gone, you’d have something to remind you of her. So that you’d remember eternally, how your love grew deeper as that tree grew taller.” My teardrops fell like rain. He looked puzzled, and afraid, afraid that the anticipating reality would find him and stab him right on the chest.

I could not breathe, but I had to keep talking, “You see, she never directly asked help from anybody, because it was always her who helped those in need.

She—she donated an organ to me.” Reality’s knife tip was probably touching his left chest right now.

“Do you mean—did she, by any chance, donate…her heart?” his innocence made me laugh nervously, and meekly.

I could not bear to think of what would happen after I said these succeeding sentences, but I had a promise to fulfil, no, a dying wish to grant, “No! Do you recall the first Saturday she didn’t go see you?

Well, that was the day she donated her kidney to me.

I had a chronic kidney illness.

You see, we have this age-old family tradition; you get to choose which tree would be cut and made into your coffin.

 She picked YOUR tree.

She died of complications which later developed after the donation.

You can hate me all you want, Ishac. But don’t forget this:

 She would never give her heart to anyone else, because it always belonged to you.”

I uttered less than ten sentences, yet I felt so out of breath, and I wept an ocean of tears. I uttered less than ten sentences, yet I knew that I, I and not the ethereal reality, had murdered a man.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Do you know how it feels like to breathe with no air?

Do you know how it feels like when you exist, you are considered alive, yet you know that you are not living at all?

I DO.

I’m dying.

NO, I’m dead.

My life…

 she died this morning.