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Posts Tagged ‘grandfather’

The clock strikes the twelfth hour.

As the familiar sound of wind chimes signals

another year of moving on,  slow and steady.

Remembering the images of the man

within the constant, shifting revolutions

of sunrise and sundown in this woman’s life.

 

Witnessing how lifelong travels have ended,

forging across countless dinnertime of growing old.

Around the fireplace, rekindling romance.

Recalling the stories of the fishermen,

of sailors down the Mediterranean.

Of cowboys in the Wild West

and the wildlife in Africa.

Of the mystical journeys

from the sands of Arabia

to the sands of Samarkand.

 

Those intimate exchanges of lofty dreams

and grand ambitions traveling marvelous

distances of north going down south.

The eastern spring and the wintry west.

Witnessing how she listened. And almost

forgot the difference, whether it is

the story of this man’s life in the stories.

Or simple make-believe.

 

Witnessing how she wobbled achingly

at her feet standing up and lighting a candle,

whispering a prayer. Memories became

mighty flexing arms reaching out for the years.

Discovering the man who makes her laugh

and who makes her cry the silent tears.

Witnessing a love that will never grow old.

Those quiet devotion as ageless and tireless,

pacing along with the hands of time.

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Nobody knows. As I perched on these white washed  stones, I will begin to unload another hour of litanies circling in my mind.  The gray clouds above me might have said that it equalize the heaviness of my feelings.  Once again, I have left the crowd and find myself curled up beneath the shade of this old tree.  Standing there, just like before, as my friend and an ever loyal witness to my secret rendezvous with someone.

I have braved through the maze of strangers before.  I might  have appeared to go unnoticed.  An ordinary human being traveling along with some nameless strangers that equally share a space in this world. Not knowing where to go and where their footsteps might lead them to.

Such in a trance, I walk past the silent gates of this haven.  A humble abode for people, who one time, have walked upon this earth.  I do not know them. Or even their names etched in epitaphs fashioned in gold. As if, in their afterlife, they have extended a piece of their mundane places.

I do not know how good or bad they are. What I know is that, they might have exhausted their lifetimes searching for some semantics.  Some signs.  Some meaning. So elusive, that some have given up trying to find it and settled to believe that theirs is their own mettle. Their own pot of luck.

I might have my day’s fill of melancholy.  The same routine I did many years back when I also try searching semantics.  Some signs if I have hit it lucky or just push myself on the bottomline. Some meaning to find that I have not lost the games I have took my chances playing on and believed it might have some worth trying harder everytime.

Grandfather, we had this before. Always, as I am sitting here as if my silent voices you have heard beneath this patch of earth might find its way to the wailing wall.  No one will ever see me cry except you.  For I believe, that no words can ever transmit the depth of questions I have inside.  Like a grave, it has also turned my heart  into a pit where the deafening silence might have engulfed them and have them tightly sealed.

Even if hours turned into aeons.  And the grayness of clouds have touched my head, seeking  and seeking still. Only to find, that my days are numbered.  Spent another half of my  life searching and living in this predictable cycle of life.  One day, I will join you and I will be another departed who might turn cold like these white-washed stones.

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“The last leaf clings to bow, with one leaf and all there is now. Will my last hope will be that lonely leaf, lonely leaf.”  And the Cascades song will just go like a merry go round in my head.  I could only bear so much happiness as I remember the songs my Grandpa used to play on the turntable.  Yes.  We still have the turntable here and kept among old things Grandpa had left after he died a decade and a half ago.

The turntable has been a symbol. Our ringing bell to jumpstart the happy mood around the house.  Every one is synchronized to each of their Sunday chores as we enjoy the rhythm of the upbeat music. Where my Grandma and my aunts used to prepare grilled dishes and vegetable salad for a picnic lunch.  The men used to fix anything from the knick knacks of the dog pen, the busted tube lights, the misplaced wood planks, to the leaking roof gutter.  And I, among with my brother, sister and other  little neighbor friends used to run and tumble around in the garden and playing until we are exhausted just to chunk on slabs of food lined up in the long table.

Sunday is the best time for us in the late 70’s and early 80’s.  Like a typical American scene of picnics, with families dressing up in a retro fashion sense.  With my Grandpa encouraging us to dance to the boogie music and sing the eternally minted jukebox songs. With the memories of going to CCP complex and catching the glimpse of Luneta and the bayview with the whole family. Then, going to Nayong Pilipino and take photographs among the many miniature scenic spots of the regions.  And the long walks we have had in Lamesa Dam with the many scupltures standing tall in witnessing the grandeur and natural beauty of the watershed.

Now, these memories will ring a tune out of my head in the songs popularized by the Platters, Three Degrees, Boney M, Patsy Cline, Elvis Presley, the Bee Gees, the Beatles, the Stylistics, Air Supply, Everly Brothers, John Denver, Cat Stevens,  Roberta Flack and other great American singers that have a cyclical life in our turntable. Of course, who can forget Imelda Papin, Yoyoy Villame, the APO, VST, Ric Segreto, Basil Valdes, Celeste Legaspi, Coritha etc.

“Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain, telling me of what a fool I have been. I wish that it would go and let me cry in vain.  And let me be alone again.”  They are now.  The memories of the past is fading too faster now.  It seems that I would only had the chance to relive them every Sunday when the radio pays a tribute to these once great music. The memories that connects my mind like a Magic Sing to the many of our family’s great heritage, such that of my Grandpa’s old and forgotten turntable. Nothing beats the good old days of yore in my life, I guess.

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