Unprepared

Summer went back to sleep

her fervour kept cool under the blanket of

brisk, crisp winter love.

The branches straighten their spines,

his stunning red hair replaced with

the baldness of a new infant.

The humans stared on with intrigued eyes.

Absence

Shovel by shovel,

grain by grain.

The ticking time dug.

“Gracias por todo, mi armor”

Retired.

Tired.

The sight of flying elephants, talking donkeys and fighting monkeys

hand in hand with trampling trolls, jumping beans and twirling fairies;

connected through hulking chains, trudging South.

Once his wisp of memory, we were.

“Despedida! Te extraño, mi hijo.”

He moved North and never saw again,

that mountain of happily ever after.

Tame your tongue

James 3:5-6

Likewise, the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark. The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole body, sets the whole course of one’s life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell.

That Sunday, a kind man from the congregation came up and said to me, “Thank you for the wonderful singing and the good worship.” I felt really encouraged and appreciated.

That’s the power of the tongue.

It could be used to say nice things and cheer someone up. Or, it could be used to defame, hurl harshness and injure someone real badly.

To everyone who had experienced lashes from my tongue, I am really sorry for hurting you and I will try to change and tame my tongue.

Only kind words from now.

Most importantly, honour God only with thy tongue.

Mr Salvatore

The clock striked eight. The bell tinkled, ding-a-ling. He pushed open the doors slowly and entered, a step at a time. His walking stick up the step, then with the support from his hands on the knob and the stick, he pushed himself up. Left foot. Right foot.

“A bee-you-tiful morning isn’t it?” he greeted with his famous Mr Bean grin - the broad smile, he always joked about, that altered his wrinkles’ contour from saggy to smiley.

“Good morning Cookie Monster!” I replied, cheerily.

“The usual?”

“Yes please, what better way to start a brand new day than with a good burly mocha cookie?”

The sight of Mr Salvatore never failed to put a twinkling spark to my mood. The smiley face tattoo on his forehead added beams of sunshine to the possibly dull work day. As usual, his jacket was inside out, a blue polka dotted bow was atop his fluffy beige woollen shirt, his socks of different colours - today, his left was navy blue and the right was salmon - and his pair of loyal maroon hush puppies at his feet. His mashed up fashion sense made me wonder if there was anyone at home to help him dress up. Did he dress this way on purpose, or not? But, given his courage to walk on the streets with that look, I guess it was intended. He was the funkiest old man I’ve ever seen. The tattoo was evidence of his boldness. How many people do you know were willing to put a large tattoo, of about eight centimetres in width, on their forehead? 

He moved slowly to his favourite corner by the huge window where he could get a good view of the passerbys. Walking stick. Left foot. Right foot. I headed behind the counter.

“Two large chocolate chip cookies, check. Thick chocolate sauce layering the cookies, check. Half teaspoon of espresso powder sprinkled on cookies, check. A warm glass of milk, check.”

He was the first customer with such a unique taste. When he first asked for mocha cookies, I was dumbfounded. “Why would a customer order something that’s obviously not on the menu?” I thought he was being silly. But it turned out, he was serious. He gave me the instructions to prepare his meal and I did. Maybe, I was the first waitress who took him seriously instead of dismissing him. Since then, he had been patronizing our store everyday, without fail, for the past three years. I tried his mocha cookies in curiousity; so did a handful of customers who were intrigued by his “peculiar” taste. It was good - rich and powerful. It’s now on the menu, one of the store’s trademark. It cost three dollars and fifty cents. From that day on, we called him “Cookie Monster”, because he was always finding better ways to eat cookies.

“Mocha cookies to start the day right!” I said as I set the tray on his table. I grabbed a sunflower from the nearby table and placed on his. He was usually sunny, but today, a pensive mood surrounded him.

“Do you know why I love sitting by the window?” he asked softly. It sounded weird hearing him without his signature singsong chirpy tone.

“Because you want to learn from their fashion style?” I quipped, hoping my lighthearted answer would bring some vibes into him.

“Is my fashion sense that bad?” He replied, with a slight chuckle.

I shrugged.

”Don’t you feel that the people passing the streets and the hustle and bustle of the city life brings liveliness? It comforts me. I don’t feel alone anymore,” he said, ending melancholically.

I wanted to chat more, but a stream of customers started flowing in and I excused myself.

Sadly, that was the last day I saw him, before our abrupt meet today - exactly a hundred and thirty-eight days later.

I sat at the dining table, glad to be able to have a rest from a whole day of standing and walking. My coffee on my right hand and the newspaper spread on the table infront of me. The headlines of the lifestyle feature today was “Home Alone”.

“… Neighbours only realised that an old man died in his home  when they smelt a decomposing stench along their corridors… The old man, who died of a cardiac arrest, was seventy. His children, who were overseas, would be coming back to hold a funeral for him…”

“What a poor guy,” I thought. If all children were this uncaring, I would never consider giving birth to one. What’s the point?

My heart went out to the old man. I was really interested in his lonely ending that my eyes followed every word of the news detailedly, like a predator on his prey, till the right column of the page, where a photo of the deceased was shown.

My hand trembled. The coffee cup suddenly felt heavy, too heavy for my hands. I plopped it down on the table, making a splash.

That guy in the photo…

That guy…

was Mr Salvatore.

Breaking Hearts

The pangs of disappointments,

the waves of uncertainties,

he pounds and

she digs.

Rubbles building out of it -

the architecture of love, perfect.

Love,

of the floating clouds.