My Poems on PoemHunter.Com

Click to read my poems on www.poemhunter.com

THE MIRACLE

Final Round

The Miracle

by Ben Crisp and Rose Flores 

“Yes,” I said, gesturing pointlessly down the street as I crossed to her.  “I… you left it at the park.”

“Thank you,” she said, reaching out a hand to take it.  She brushed a loose strand of hair back and squinted at me.  “I have no money, sorry.  But thank you.”

“No, you don’t… I didn’t want a reward.  Are you alright?  You look upset.”

She turned away, and I wondered how I could be so direct to this perfect stranger.

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “I’m inquisitive.”

“OK,Yankee Steve.  I have to go now,” she said, and started to walk.A stupid, mad chuckle escaped my mouth and I caught it quickly in my hand as I chased after her. 

“No, not… it means I’m nosy.  I’m curious, sorry.  Like a cat, you know.”

She stopped and squinted at me again, as though wondering whether to smile at this insane white man or not.  Then she pointed at my nose.  “Curiosity kills the cats.”

“Yes it does,” I said, nodding.  “Do you want a coffee?”

She turned and started walking again.  “If I had money I would give it to you, but thank you for bringing my scarf.”

I chased after her.  “No!  No, it’s nothing to do with… I want nothing from you.  I just thought you looked like you could use a coffee.”

Her squinting tortured me.  I had no clue what was going on behind those stern brown eyes, and not knowing this little thing was vanishing all that I did know; every instinct was fading from me.

“I’m a journalist, I’m not…” I said helplessly, and shrugged. Not what?

She shrugged back.

“Your boyfriend’s house?” I asked as we sat at a table beneath a red canvas umbrella.

“Why do you think that?”

“The locket.”  I pointed at the little golden heart turning restlessly between her thumb and forefinger.  She snapped it into her palm defiantly.

“The scarf is from my boyfriend,” she said, pulling it from her neck and resting it on the table as our coffees arrived.

I tore open a sugar packet and tapped it into my cup.  “I’ll bet you chose it.  It matches your dress.”

She checked her phone and did not answer me.  I was right.

“You drink too much coffee,” she said at last, after she had sighed and tucked her phone away again.  “Caffeine is bad for the heart.”

I shrugged again.  “Everything is bad for the heart these days.”

We sipped from our cups and ventured into the silence that filled the air around us.  Empty, silent air; it choked me more than smoke.  Was that why my fingers reached for last cigarette after last cigarette after last cigarette?

“May I see?” I said, and held out my palm.

She stared at me through steam rising from her coffee, a cradle of warmth between her two soft hands; then lowered the cup, unfolding her fingers to proffer the locket.

It was of the yellow gold I had never admired, adorned with rubies that might have been real, or might have not; and not knowing made them seem worthless.  A tiny clasp unhinged its two halves, splitting the fragile little heart in two, revealing a miniature biscuit-tin print of the veiled Madonna.

“Lucky charm?” I asked.

“She is pure.  Perfect.  Everything else is dirty in the morning.”

“Nothing’s quite as pretty as Mary in the morning,” I sang in my best Elvis voice, but she did not smile. A digital chirrup sounded beneath the table, and she withdrew her phone swiftly, reading the message with that same familiar squint.

“Boyfriend?” I asked.

She reached out and took the locket back, standing as she did so.

“I have to go.  Now.”

Her voice had a tiny tinge of urgency to it.  I stood too.

“Thank you for the coffee,” she said as she started to walk away.

I was about to remind her that I hadn’t actually offered to pay for her drink, but changed my mind and dropped a handful of coins on the table instead, following her.

“Your scarf,” I said, offering it to her.  She snatched it from me with a little noise of annoyance – at herself or at me I was not sure.  “It’s Michael, by the way.”

“Violeta,” she said.

She began to murmur underneath her breath as she quickened her pace.  I was almost jogging just to keep up with her, my hands in my pockets as though we were just two friends in a mutual hurry.  She was praying, I realised; every other word of the rosary filtered from her lips through the noise of the traffic – into which she suddenly stepped, waving her hand at a Corolla with barely readable taxicab printing that skidded to a halt beside her.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

She glanced at me like an impatient schoolteacher as she grabbed at the door.

“Hospital,” she said.

“Then Michael hop in!  Or would you leave now?”  So we boarded the Corolla. 

I didn’t know what this guy wanted from me, but I didn’t care less because my thoughts were horrible.  I knew something would happen, and whatever fate again would present to me – as to my friend Hannibal’s wisdom was to be happy and free.  I assured myself that what could happen to my boyfriend was reality, like the shifting of clouds – we just couldn’t stop their movements, only God can.  The next thing I felt our hands were tightly locked, and Michael’s gaze trying to seize my brokenness.

     “Is there something I can do?” he asked.

     “Nothing.  Thank you.”

     Lane upon lane, track upon track; my mind whizzed the clouds, the nothingness, the coldness of my fright, the fallen hopes, the waiting, my single life of faith. At this time, the locket...

    “Don’t worry. We’ll get there.” Michael asserted.

     And then, in my bag the phone buzzed again.  I grasped the phone firmly, but my hands were weak so the phone dropped down the cab floor.  Michael got it and read the message. 

     I did not mind his resolve.  The driver was silent with only the twist of his wheels.  The air was cold and my heart pounded heavily like rocks on my chest breaking for mercy.  “Oh, Maria!”

     Silence in the cab, in the air, near the afternoon...  Michael didn’t say any word, but searched the locket for me and put them in my hands.  He held me close and I did not resist the comfort of his arms around my bereft shoulders that needed warmth and flesh. 

    “We’d go to the back office of the hospital, Violeta.  The staff will give us instructions...”    

I paid the driver as she sprang from the taxi.

            My only thought during the ride was that I could not remember the last time I had hugged someone out of the simple instinct to comfort; when had the act of touch become so foreign?

            Please hurry.

            That’s all the second text had said.So whatever disaster had befallen him had not restricted his use of a phone.  I hated myself for the unkind thought.  Had my ex looked as Violeta looked, whenever I had told her I was ill?

            The nurse at the back office desk glanced at the clipboard hanging by her side.  Emergency. Bay 212.  Violeta hurried ahead and I followed, helplessly, at a distance.  I thrust my hands into my pockets and peered through the gridded windows on the doors as we walked the length of the corridor, my lungs filling with the smell of disinfectant.  The figures in the beds looked so small and vulnerable.  As Violeta stopped ahead of me I realised they were children.  The realisation shook in me, and my fingers closed around something in my pocket.  The familiar scratch of a paper curl on skin. A forgotten cigarette.

            I stood behind her. Through the window in front of us I saw a dimly lit room.  A woman leaned forward in a chair, her back to us.  Her hands were clasped around the hand of a boy who lay motionless in the hospital bed.  From where I stood I could see his eyes were not quite closed, fine red lines crossing his face around them.  Machines surrounded him, their cables disappearing under his sheet, electric green and blue lights winking and flickering softly.

            Across the bed from the woman stood her husband.  I recognised him.  I had seen his face in newspapers; a politician, maybe.  He was short, dressed in a dark business suit.  His hands were deep in his pockets and he stood, slumped, staring at the boy with a strange look on his face.  It was the look of a man for whom the curtain of life had been pulled aside, and he saw nothing behind it.

            His glassy eyes drifted from the boy across the room to the door.  He saw Violeta.  He saw me.  I glanced at Violeta, her eyes now welling.  Across the space, through the glass, the two of them were sharing a look filled with all the sadness, the sweetness, the tenderness and heartache that I had ever known love to be about.  It was then I felt alone, as the lonely will do, rain soaked neighbour to the world of the loved.  A world for those who felt the warmth of others even when parted, and who felt another’s pain.

            I felt pain.  I felt Violeta’s, as she felt her lover’s, as she felt and he felt the pain of his son, and the mother did too, and I; all of us there in the chapel of pain, Our Lady of the Sacred Heart Hospital.

            He looked to his wife, and Violeta turned from the window, her hands to her mouth, eyes searching for some solace in mine.  I curled an arm around her shoulder and walked her to the stairwell at the end of the ward.  As we rose, step by step, I heard the rooftop doorway humming a mellow chant between the cold conditioned inside air and the free and humid day outside.

            On the roof we stood and stared, listening together as the yellow scarf fluttered in morning eddies, and I saw… I saw, across the avenue, beyond the cries and howls and mirth of the city streets, through a border of bricks and bolts and steel, perched on a plinth in the centre of a pond, the concrete Madonna.

            Perhaps love was not pure, but stained.  Perhaps love was not harmony, but discord.  Perhaps love came in all the shades of earth and grime, and in the moist and dirty breath of the taglamig air that brushed our faces on mornings such as this.

            Violeta prayed in silence beside me, and I lit my last cigarette.

   My last ever, I promised myself, as I had done the day before.

 posted by rosevoc2

December 7. Mata Sa Bintana

Mata Sa Bintana

Sabi ng katulong naming si Ate Liza, kapag hindi raw ako natulog ng maaga ay may dudungaw sa bintanang mga mata.

Sino? Mata ba ni Spiderman o mata ni Bubbles ng Power Puff?

“Hindi raw nakakatawa dahil mga mata raw ng White Lady.”

Sa bahay kasi, laging pinagbibintangan ang White Lady, dahil sa White Lady… Minsan naawa na ako sa White Lady. Siguro kung makapagssasalita lang siya, lagot silang lahat. Ako lang ang kaibigna ng White Lady.

Minsan, nawala ang pera ni Tiya Azon, at wala naming pumasok na ibang tao sa bahay. Nag-usap usap sila.

Sino ang kumuha? Wala naman, may nagtago raw.

Pagkapos isang gabi sabi ni Tiya Azon may isang babaeng mahaba ang buhok sa paanan ng kanyang kama. Mala-rosas ang mga mata, na gustong makipagti-titigan, sabay naglahong mabilis. Nakatinging raw sa kay Tiya Azon. Kung ganon hindi lamang kami ang nakatira sa bahay. Mabuti malaki ang bahay dahil pati ang White Lady at ang kanyang pamilya ay may magandang tirahan. Lumaki ako sa ganitong kapaligiran.

Isang gabi tumitingin ako sa album ni Tiya Aon. Naramdaman kong malamig at mainit sa silid niya. Nag-jacket ako, pag-katapos hinubad itong muli para buksan ang electric fan.

Binalikan ko ang mga larawan at nakita kong ito ay nasa ilalim nang kama at wala na sa tabi ko.

Ininilipad ba ito ng electric fan?

“Ate Liza” matututlog na ako. Halika at samahan mo akong matulog.”

Mula noon, abot langit ang aking dasal para sa mga kaluluwa, para sa maga ispiritu, para sa mga White Lady. Marahil sa takot.

Bilog ang buwan. Sa azoteya ako nakatulog – nanaginip ako, may mata sa azoteya. Ityon na yata ang sinasabi ni Ate Liza…

.Umusok sa paligid ng itim, , may malaking mama, walang mukha. Hindi ako makahinga, wari’y ungol ng ungol para magising. Alam ko ako’y natutulog, alam ko ako ay binbangungot.

Kahit sa pikit kong mga mata at tulog na katawan, sa aking isip ako ay gising. Paulit-ulit kong dinasal ang Aba Ginoong Maria at isinigaw ang Lord! Jesus! Jesus!

Dito bumalikwas ako sa gising. Parang sinuntok ng malakas at naglaho ang maitim na mama sa aking panaginip.

Wala nang mata sa bintana.

Wala na ang White Lady.

Marahil kung ano man ang kailangan nila dito sa aming bhay, hindi ko alam – at hindi na importante.

Ang sabi ko sa aking mga kasambahay, kay Tiya Azon, at kay Ate Liza ay magdasal sila, ipagdasal ang mga taong hindi natin nakikita. Dasal ang kailangan ng mga mata sa bintana. Dasal ang kailangan nating lahat.

8.11.2006
copyright rose flores martinez
revised 11.19.2009

My Other Blogs

http://rfvietnamrose09.blogspot.com
http://roseprayers.blogspot.com
http://iwrotefiction.blogspot.com
http://rosevoc2.wordpress.com

Rebecca, Three Scary Stories in Filipino

Friday, September 25, 2009

An Introduction

Rebecca. This story is my first entry to the world of fiction.

I couldn't think of anything more interesting than this one during birthing. This came to me when Sir Isagani Cruz required us to write one fiction story. And so I tried to bleed this during the workshop with Sir Charlson Ong and Sir Medina. Oh --- it did not impress them, but they thought my idea was convincing, and so I tried to improve it. I don't know if Sir Isagani remembers how I conceived this story, but I really told the whole class about it. I was not ashamed and maybe they understood me. I knew I have to polish this story.

Later, Sir Bisa helped me repair this fiction and thanks to him because I was able to decide with the title, "Rebecca." Do you know about the strong woman Rebecca, or Shakespeare's Rosalind? I just had thoughts about this. Then, Rebecca was published in Liwayway - under the authors page (Bagong Manunulat) and Sir Reynaldo Duque helped me with this story again. My story got a lot of bumpy roads without any prize. But then, this was my first fiction and what is important to me is to GET PUBLISHED and READ. Sir Dan Meneses, included it in his anthology titled "30 Piling Kuwento 2003" and was edited by Sir R. Duque. And so, I got to my goal and contentment "My prize was enough here and more than any distinction the world could give me - working with these respected writers and editors was the best prize I could ever have. Truly, it gave me a chance to prove myself in the world of writing and sharing literature.

I thank GOD for this.

Are you ready to see the ghost in me?

Go work the puzzles.

My fiction and stories are for you.

I wrote for you,
Rosalinda Flores - Martinez, 2009

http://iwrotefiction.blogspot.com

http://rfvietnamrose09.blogspot.com