“Nothing can ever happen twice.”
—Wislawa Szymborska
My daughter Marianne sat at the left corner of the bench, with impatience plastered on her face. It was seven in the morning, and the bus did not arrive yet. Although the bus station operator says, “It was the second batch of the ride today, arriving soon. Soon. I do not think that my daughter would know that word. She was grumpy and impatient, yet shy and docile. She does not say a word, although her actions were a clear sign and indication that she was not into this kind of waiting. Not happy nor sad, I suppose. She never stood in this kind of place—it was her first time.
“It will few minutes dear, we just have to wait until it arrives,” I said, trying to bring comfort and ease. But she covered her face with her favorite Barbie school bag and did not respond.
Summer of 2006, inevitably hot and steamy. All things seemed to be vibrant. People were coming back and forth, walking, talking, and rushing in this public place. It was still early, yet the heat was scorching enough to penetrate our skin, despite being under the bus station’s thick and wide roof. I felt dizzy after waking up too early than my supposedly alarmed clock, plus the “heat” around.
But I have to resist—as much as I can—the urge to take a nap, or else, we would miss the second batch of the bus ride. I got no sleep after I rushed things yesterday, settling everything we need for this occasion.
Two months ago, a plan was going on inside my head that bugged me. It occurred to me, once, that I should owe them a visit. Visit them for catching ups, to know what they are up to these days. Mother has been calling me every day, between our conversations, telling me to come home. That it was five years ago since the last time they saw me in the flesh.
Five years ago. I did not let them know my house address to avoid surprise visits. For some reason, my ambivalence toward family visits grew stronger, as the years went and passed by my eyes. Not once in any occasions or parties, that I never dared to talk about my house and my own life for these years—even with my parent’s persistence.
A few days ago, Aunt Ellie—the apartment’s landlady—knocked at my door one morning. I just arrived exactly at six in the morning from my night shift duty. And when I came to open the door—Aunt Ellie had a bright-beaming smile on her face as she hands me the letter.
A letter.
“Another letter arrived for you this morning, Mayet,” she said in a raspy voice. A sign of her old age.
“Thanks, though I never expect a letter to arrive.”
The address says it was from Tarlac—from the province—but who wrote it? There was no name or any indication as to whom, but for certain, the address was enough to make me fall into a deep pit of curiosity.
Aside from my friends and fellow officemates in the city, I never gave my address to anyone except my workplace. Not either in the province where I, unfortunately, knew anyone. It would be impossible to think that it was my ex-husband. We’ve been separated for five years now.
By any chance—would it be them? Why would they write to me? “Ah! My telephone line was down, what am I thinking!” Of course, they would write to me. They can’t call me. One of the staff from the telephone company came to my door last week, informing me that abruptly, there was a technical problem going on with their equipment, so they need to at least shut it down for a week. They can’t call me. Although, I tried being pretentious—there is a tinge of happiness with a kind of violence, on that thought.
They sent me a letter, but I planned not to read it. Not when I got home—to our house where it all started.
***
The bus arrived but my daughter fell asleep.
I had to carry her—she was nine—and her weight alone made my shoulder ache. I never thought that she will grow into a young woman. I read the sign from the bus that says: “Baguio, Urdaneta, Moncada, Gerona.”
People start moving like bullets, to get first on the seats of the bus. I had to carry both our luggage and my daughter’s. She woke up eventually and was terrified by the number of people swarming at the bus’s entrance. I felt a sharp pain on my wrist—it was my daughter’s small hands clutching onto my wrist. Utterly clueless and terrified at the same time. I smiled at her, but again, she says nothing.
“We have to hurry, nak, or else the bus would leave us,” I said, caressing her small arms.
Again, she did not speak, but a small nod as a response.
***
We rode the bus, sitting in the middle part. My daughter fell asleep again.
“What a life!” I hugged her as she soundingly slept on my chest. The bus was not halfway yet in the city, and there were still two to three hours of the ride to Tarlac. I constantly reminded myself not to drowse off and keep my mind awake. When I looked outside the window, I saw how people and things go outside: vehicles moving forward, smokes rising, vendors, as well as street cleaners, tending to their businesses, and people—man, woman, old and young, walking on the sidewalks and pedestrians. Within the vicinity of my thoughts, I slipped into a memory and saw a child, the same age as my daughter. Young, innocent, but restless. I saw her—in a floral dress, her favorite dress, blowing a birthday cake.
Happy and innocent. The youthful years I had before days turned into cold and unpleasant proof of my existence. Of my parents—my crying mother, and the physical beatings of my own father.
There was room for the recollection of memories, I said. Not here, not today. Yet, the silence that covered us in the bus ride alone, was too unbearable that I cried.
I took out the letter from my shoulder bag, and let out a sigh. This is the letter that they sent to me. Carefully, not to wake my daughter, I opened the letter. It was not sealed. I wonder if they have done it on purpose. When I opened it, I try to comprehend the cursive writing, and later on, read it well:
“Anak,
I would like to apologize for everything. No days had passed that we want nothing but to see you happy. Marie, our neighbor, once saw you in a supermarket with a young girl. She told me that she tried to approach you but you were too busy tending to the young girl and the shopping. I cried and still crying at the thought that you have your own family now. It was your child. Your Dadang and I wondered what she looked like. How tall she is and what was her age? I would love to know. We would love to know. And I know, you never wanted to hear anything from us. But I call every day to hear your voice. We missed you. I believed that you found your home and that someday if you forgive us, would be very happy to see you when you visit.
We love you, always. We will wait for you.
Dadang and Mamay”
Silence.
The next thing I felt was the warm thing streaming down from my eyes. Tears? It’s been years since I have had this. To cry out of sadness. To know that there was still something left inside of me to bear. I cried silently, not to wake my daughter.
The memories of myself in those days flew like a butterfly.
Now, it would be a long, long ride.
***
I fell asleep the whole ride and dreamed of sweet things: our house, my fifth birthday, my mother’s food, my father’s smile, my brother and sister’s voices, then, my daughter’s first birthday, her first word “Yum,” her first walk, and cry. I never thought that the whole ride would be this tranquil.
I woke up as soon as I heard the conductor say—we arrived at the province. As I opened my eyes—the sensation of longingness struck me. Although everything was different, I can still vividly remember the past and familiar images of these sights—the buildings, houses, roads, street signs, and trees. I knew and remember these things.
One thing particularly stood out among these things. Our house. Old but firmly standing inside that rusty old gate. There are people outside. Talking, but what about? I hold my daughter’s hand and pushed the gate without ringing the doorbell, never bothered with the strangeness that I felt. My eyes darted at the opened house entrance. Some of the people look at me, some with nonchalance, some with curiosity, and some with familiarity.
Both of them were peaceful. I shivered as I walked, slowly, recollecting myself—of those images in front. In front of two caskets. My parents’ caskets.
Without any resolution to be brave: I walked, cried, and sobbed. I thought the letter they wrote meant for me was enough.
Jefferson Limos is a 24-year-old communication student from the Philippines. He usually writes and devoured classic and contemporary literature in the quiet dead of the night. His short stories and essays were published in Circles Magazine, KALazine IV, and The Indiependent Collectives.
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