Ephemeris

22 : Vinta

For a second or two, Daniel's irises held at the golden crepuscule ahead. He felt a fancy but a bit distressing disconnected affinity surge in his blood vessels. With a sudden shift of his eyes, he abruptly averted his gaze and began clawing at the asphalt road of their soundless street, pulling his pronated body headlong.

At length, he could see the corroded gates of their house. Long tapering shadows were painted on the dusty pavement. Perceived by his tired eyes was the sun setting on the gap between their home and the moored old apartment building.

Unexpectedly, he noticed the setting sun was not shooting streams of fiery lights. The air was too sweet. It was like honey drizzled over the precipice. He couldn't point out what perturbed his bosom. However, the air smells as sweet as the thick, sugary substance bees make. He deliberately rammed his side against the iron gate to produce a startling noise—an alarm suggesting he was already home.

"I'm back!" he said at full volume.

Hopefully, he waited for a reply or a loud crackling hove of coughs, but nothing was forthcoming. Something was wrong, he sensed. His fingers yanked off the bar of the creaky gate and pushed them apart. In a rising intonation, he uttered the old man's name, "Abraham?" His flushed cheeks were draining fast as he trod the lawn. I guess he fell asleep waiting for me or... please, not this afternoon. Not now, he thought, churning his flight of fancies deep into a depressing quandary.

He stooped down to the ground and began to caress the wall of bricks of the dilapidated structure. He aligned himself with Abraham's window above. He pulled himself up with the support of some protruded bricks, taking good hold to reach the window. A fingernail of his stuck between two ugly-looking bricks. The mishap chapped his nail bed. This time, he could hear the rhythm of his heart, rapid, deafening, and strangling. A perplexing formless hunch was building up within. The splendor of the twilight atmosphere was rather unusual, he feared, obscuring a secret yet to discover.

"Grandpa?" he saw four fingernails glued firmly on the windowsill, and a strange white plastic bag was hanging by the window.

Finally, he saw the old man comfortably sitting in his wheelchair; his eyes were shut, sleeping tranquil. He tapped Abraham's arthritic hand three times, trying to wake him up. The old man didn't respond to the stimulus. He didn't whip up to drive the boy away, pestering him to sleep. The boy tapped his hand again three times—this time a little harder. The faint patting sound echoed across the room, but Abraham didn't move. His eyelids were shut, his lungs were not expanding and receding, and both hands were icy and hard.

The boy angled his chin skyward, then to the west, where the amber afterglow immaculately reflected his sinking feeling. The sun happened to be radiating blazingly at the moment like a ferocious bonfire in his chest. His windpipe grew dry and coarse, scratched with a burning melange of horror and dolor. He cursed the universe, screaming inside his head. How would I whisper my goodbyes and prayers to him? To the light that has comforted me and told me amazing stories, he thought as his shadow was stretching longer on the dirt.

With misty eyes, Daniel cocked his head back from the window and held his breathing down, glaring at the corpse as his eyes adjusted to the light. He noticed a curious thing crumpled inside Abraham's right fist lying on his lap. He plucked it from his fist and uncrumpled the paper. It was a written letter to him.

The opening paragraph pierced his soul, evoking a profound sadness that brought tears streaming down his cheeks as he confronted words heavy with heartache.

———————

Daniel,

Sorry if I will not be around to hear your story. Can you forgive me? I tried my best to wait, but the bells rang for my departure. Please, allow me to share my final story. I want you to learn something from it.

I saw a cluster of sailing vintas in the skies this afternoon while peering outside my window. The vintas looked like the gaping mouths of crocodiles because of their bifurcated prows and sterns. I was a little scared, not because of the outrigger boat's semblance of a carnivorous reptile but because of the thought of some greedy pirates riding on it. But I brushed the prejudice and fictitious notion off. Instead, I focused more on the incredible multi-colored and uniquely ethnic-patterned lug sails. It was so beautiful. They were not scary at all, for they looked like flying crocodiles with colorful wings.

One vinta cruised towards me, and maybe the captain saw me. The man seemed nice because he was wearing a contagious smile. He asked me with a foreign accent if I was okay. I said, "Yes." Then he said, "Hungry?" I didn't get him. Is he begging for food? The next second he tossed me three canned goods. He said, "Eat. Those were sardines from our seas at the Orient. It's good." I wanted to sound polite, so I replied, "Thank you." Then a woman and five children sprouted behind him, smiling and giggling. The vinta sailed back to the cluster as the gentle people never tired of smiling and waving their hands. I was grateful to feel for the last time the life forces that made them one piece together—compassion and love.

Son, never fear my absence. Be brave. Be optimistic. Love hard because the Book of Life is brief.

I will forever treasure the days and the immense brightness you have shown me. Remember that you are a star, a star yet to shine brighter.

May this letter and my stories keep me alive as much as they can.

Your loving grandfather,

Abraham

P.S.

Please accept the sardines I hang by the window. I had never had sardines in hot red tomato sauce before. Even so, I am sure they're delicious. I hope this postscript will make you laugh.

———————

Daniel held his tears back and snorted, for he found the postscript a bit funny. He grabbed the white plastic bag with the canned goods nailed on the window frame. "I will be forever grateful to you. Thank you for painting colors on my black-and-white world," he whispered. A teardrop drifted away from the corner of his eye.

For the very last time, he wanted to see Abraham's face. And so, he reached out, cupped the corpse's chin, lifting it. The old man's face was sunken and pale, but underneath his unpleasant appearance, there was another face overflowing with serenity and cherubic charm like a sleeping infant. He welcomed death not as a sentence, not an end but as an onset to everlasting life, as a reward.

The boy planted a quick kiss on his forehead, carefully removed his petrified hand clinging to the windowsill, and slowly swung the windows shut. "Thank you," he bit his lip, "Thank you," he could not quit saying his thanks as his face was burning in gratitude and mourning. As his eyes met the reflection in the window, a profound sense of loneliness welled within him, casting a shadow upon his soul.

He rushed inside the house and stayed in the heart of the gloomy living room. Like a sponge, he absorbed all the melancholy imprisoned inside his heart and his home. He cried. His world was crumbling apart as if the pieces of an undone jigsaw puzzle broke into pieces.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the unfathomable, horrible abstract painting he most disliked. He threw the plastic bag, aiming to destroy it. Miraculously, the painting didn't garner a graze, but one of its fasteners detached, making it swing from side to side unbalanced, creating a monotonous scraping noise. The noise drove him mad, striking the tiny cinders of hope and life from him, striking his flesh until his blood flowed. He was lost in godforsaken thought, pondering why misery had befallen the world. He felt evil came upon him and plotted bitter things on his palms. And then he shrieked, numb with all the wallops and slaps of the torturous and maddening bedlam and calvary.