Mona Ster

Philippines

Message from Writer

The woman who bled ink, died from words she couldn't say.

TOMORROW

August 21, 2018

The day had started. Yellow strobes of light penetrate my four-walled room, filling the small space with regal magnificence. And as I fill my nose with deep air and my ears with the singing birds, I remind myself, that tomorrow has become today. 

Moments like these are hard to come by, when I could just smile and be in harmony with the world around, not when stress is my prison and my only jail time are days like these. The day was young and I was old on bed, I lie still and imagine myself falling back to my dreams and think of nothing but bliss, but it was hard when each deep breath  takes me back to my responsibilities, when it reels me to reality. 

So I step outside my haven, and trudge my feet slowly on the stairs. One, two, three, I count the steps, each step shows how reality keeps on unraveling. My Mom greets me with a smile, but I know how hard it was for her to get out from bed, ten times more than my predicament was, yet she greets me like every other day. She hugs me and sings her rendition of Little Susie, something she always do when I try to sink back to my dream world. She ushers me to the restroom where there I unravel myself, to be vulnerable under the raindrops from the shower. I let myself be blown off by the reality that I was awake and nothing was going to change that. It’s hard to control myself, to just let go and let the falling water hide my emotions, to cloak and be hidden from the world. But before I could think of running my thoughts any further, knocks from the restroom door awaken my senses. It was as if I had just resurfaced from underwater. So I go out. 

There Mom tells me that breakfast is ready. And when I am, I sit alone on the dining table. Mom was busy with preparing something else and Dad was still sleeping in his bed-aka couch. I could see him snoring from where I was sitting. With no one to join me, I start my meal. With each gulp and sip from my meal, I hear the echo of the resonating voice of a famous radio anchor that Dad idolizes, each comical sound and each comment from him resonates within the silence of the house, within the silence in me. 

Time passes by and I am reminded that I had somewhere to be. Mom sees me off, and Dad delivers me to my reality. That moment when I could have said what my mind and heart were whispering, silently screaming I love you’s yet I do not. I am too afraid to speak, too engrossed in silence. Both of them, I will not see until later.

And I come home, straight to my bed. I realized that this was my reality. I am alone. 

Here I lie, the night is still young, but I wait for tomorrow where I wish for another reality. 

The day had started. Yellow strobes of light penetrate my four-walled room, filling the small space with regal magnificence. And as I fill my nose with deep air and my ears with the singing birds, I remind myself, that tomorrow has become today. 

The day was young and I was old on bed, it was too hard to get out with my dreams enticing me to get back to their world. But this world was mine, and the day was calling out to me, just as the smell of toasted bread and scrambled eggs called out from the kitchen. And so I follow. Step, step, step, each small step carry me closer to the kitchen while I hear the cacophony of frying pans and whistling kettles, where I’m eager to meet its queen. My mom, with her hair tied into a tight bun, was finishing up our breakfast for the day. And when she hear my soft trudges, she looks up and greets me with a smile, and meets me halfway with a hug, she then whispers to my ears, Little Susie, a name she calls me when sleep was hard to shake off. She takes a hold of my hands and steers me to the dining table where I find my favorite meals and someone extra. There in the chair, near the first window, I find Dad reading the daily newspaper. He is always the first one on the table. Always. 

When everyone had taken a seat out from the table, magic flows. It was a different magic each day, and today was good magic. Magic flows along with each smiles and in each words we exchanged with each other. As the backdrop of our meal, we hear the resonating voice of a famous radio anchor that Dad idolizes, each comical sound and each comment from him echoes inside the house. Mom would then proceed to make a joke about Dad, not being fed up with the news when everyday he reads the newspaper, listens to the news on the radio and watches the news on the television. We could say he’s woke. This sets off a light banter from them, a must watch in couples. 

The second meal is much more serene than the first one. Often, we would indulge in silence and let the daily noontime show’s voices fill the house. There is something in the afternoon that makes time slower, as if the transcendence of day and night takes a toll. 

When night comes, the third meal is prepared. Tiredness seeps out from every one, yet sharing a meal indulges us to an unwinding session. 

As we head to our rooms, we bid our good nights and I love you’s.

And I head to my bed, contented and happy. The reality I chose. 

Here I lie, the night is still young, but I wait for tomorrow, another reality to face.

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