By: Iris P. Concepcion
Let us call him Caldwell. He was teaching mathematics in a snow-cold part of the world. His students were not listening to him as he miraculously devised creative ways to make his lessons more upbeat and palatable. The numerous 000000000000000's and xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx's in explaining Earth's age.
He is a character in a book of course. I would like to ascribe its creator as limping and freckled-spock. The corn therefore dropped her kernel while devouring his tomato-based pasta that is priced lower than the usual market fare (tastes good: like my own recipe).Him.
Sprightly. His walk. He is wearing an apricot shirt (I learned this from a crayola carton). Strides of a typewriter that had been oiled and spared from an antique house. Sturdy walks. He was picking greens and bally things in that container for salads, in that grocer's middle corner while the corn is holding on to her bladder. The excitement is not upfront: it slowly grows into a boiling, incommunicable awe. Henry.
My freaking God. That is Henry. He snobbed my honeydew place in that capitalist haven (it is heaven) as everyone scoops stuffy leaves and pasta shells and vignettes (I am sorry, the sour thing? But I am a writer) like they are chewing a whole rainforest.
Bringing his salad bowl like a Prada bag, eyeing the fruit shakes with caution, he took hurried steps, like someone from Star Trek: a hiding, deep smirk hidden from his chin (I am imagining), his silver hair was blinding the light.
He went to a bakery. If loaves of bread can talk, they would be out of teeth by now.
Corn could not bring herself to look at that presence: it was unbearable.
This could be something close to facing God face to face: WHAT DO YOU REALLY SPEAK during times like these. Mouth inanities? Pee? Feign a seizure? Pick some hair and wish that it will turn into a fur?
I had imagined this every day of my life, practicing how to react to presences like this and I did my best: as a dud dumb.
I know we are already well met and his words? He exactly looks like that: a magnificent novel.
He is a book.
I had taken something huge from the universe and I do not think I deserve the queenly treatment (I am overtly appreciative in this manner: off-kilter and overbearing). Like having experienced the best creative buffet in my entire, stoic life.
And my kids continue to roll with the punches, outclassing everyone in their midst, elevating myself to importance that could never be bought.
Ano ang maluwag? Ito ang hindi masikip.
Diamonds are forever, thanks chap. Easy on the dressing.
And Kigs, as usual, hilarity spurts over the dinghy block, snuffing misery like an invisible laser. You are extremely gooooooooooddddd.