The Sinners We Love |18+

[17] sand

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sand: time slips like sand does from our hands

"This is pretty good, huh?" Chocolate syrup dribbled down my fingers, as I munched a piece of waffle. "I didn't expect that." Taking the empty box, I swiveled my fingers to savor the leftover crumbs and the sticky syrup.

"Small businesses are often overlooked." Papa remarked passing a tissue, gesturing me to clean my hands. "I can't believe two days passed so fast." His old dazed eyes lined with disbelief, his voice strained.

I scrubbed my fingers with sudden urgency and slid down the kitchen counter. Nearing him I engulfed him in a warm hug. "I need to give you something." Papa's voice echoed in his chest against my ear, filling me with a familiar vibration I grew up with. He pulled away, tenderly patting my back.

I noticed Papa's steps were a little disheveled and his weak fingers touched the concrete wall on his side. His posture was slouching slightly and it seemed like he had missed a few haircuts. My heart thumped painfully.

when did he become so — old?

I matched my steps with him, going to his side. Taking his arm over my shoulder, I looked up at him. "Will you come and stay with me, Papa?"

Hopeful, that he would finally agree. Afraid, because I knew he would not. Papa looked taken back with my sudden action but a tired smile appeared on his face. "I would be a nuisance to your busy life." He chuckled looking forward, his fingers threading in my hair as he patted my head, as if trying to erase the thought. As if easing the pain in my heart.

I tugged on the loose material of his shirt, thinking of all the times I had tugged on him before. The first day at middle school. The day he took me to swimming class. The times Mother did not allow me to go for parties. He had protected me, sheltered me, with these same strong hands.

Papa would run laps with me early in the morning, before my school athletic exams, even when he had to take Mum for medical check-up right after our sessions. I would fall and fuss for my last breath while Papa would stand tall, hands on his hips, with pointed eyes and a strong smile, he would say: never give up without a fight.

Now, his hands were weak and steps faltered and he looked too tired to fight. Life indeed was an exhausting fight. Draining and haunting.

People grew up amongst materialistic subjects, superficial feelings, and if they were lucky enough they rarely got glimpses of life in someone else's eyes. In the words they spoke. Or in the dreams that other people shared.

It was almost an instinct to cling to that. Because it felt like a homecoming after years of staying in a foreign land, in the arms of people who didn't speak the language of your soul. And just when you felt at ease, the moment the loneliness numbed down, soothing your chaotic thoughts, life took away everything you had ever loved. Ever held close. And dared you to adjust with the new fast life.

But how could you? This wasn't living.

You didn't laugh the same. You didn't live the same. You didn't get to return home to your favorite person. Your thoughts weren't shared, even if they were, it did not matter. Because it wasn't the person you wanted to share them with.

How could you live in a world where the person you loved the most did not exist?

There was spreading question in school. A fun little game. Someone had once asked if two people were drowning — one who loved you and one whom you loved. Who would you choose to save?