Saudade

     This is the first short story I wrote in college for my HUMALIT subject with Miss Antonette Talaue-Arogo. It took me two days to finish this. We were asked to develop a story inserting this short story in the beginning, middle, or end of our developed story:

     "A woman is sitting in her old shuttered house. She is alone in the whole world, every other thing is dead.

     The doorbell rang."

     The story was not very special. There are few redundancies, but at least I was able to write one; but, I know that I'm still in the process of learning how to write a good short story, so there's still a chance to improve on my weakness/es. After finishing the story, I had a difficult time making a title for it. Luckily while I was viewing tumblr posts, I've encountered the word "SAUDADE" which suits my story perfectly.

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     It was 5:47 in the morning and I gazed at the majesty of the red, orangey, purplish sky as the sun began to rise in the East. I hop from one circular flat stone to another on the twisting path laid in front of me that kind of looks like a boa constrictor and the wind would give my cheeks a shiver when it brushes against my skin as I hop swiftly by the second. I played with the shadows formed by the leafless tress—my favorite appearance of a tree ever since—whose branches reminds me of my grandmother’s old, skinny fingers; surrounding the path I’m walking through. It felt that as I move forwards, my teenage memories come rushing back at me like the ocean waves—and maybe you’re thinking that I’m literally “strolling down memory lane”.

Bolt from the blue while my head is in the clouds, I found myself in front of an old shuttered house. It was an average-sized white colored house surrounded by the dreary forest named: “Despair”. It was two-storey high, a house I certainly believe I have seen before. Out of curiosity, I entered its rusty old gate that cries loudly like a baby, producing a high-pitched crackling sound as I make my way into the lifeless, grassless, and flowerless lawn. I slowly inspected the place and found a hole at the right wall of the house whose size is like the seal you find in a graduation diploma. I peeked inside.

A woman is sitting in her old shuttered house. She is alone in the whole world; every other thing is dead.

The doorbell rings…

The doorbell rings again…

The doorbell rings for the third time…

Suddenly, I grew tired of ringing the doorbell so I resorted to leaving the house, but then the door’s locks clicked, and I can hear someone deliberately turning the knob to open the door. I turned my head back and I froze like a stone statue to where I stand.

“It can’t be!” I mumbled to myself.

Oh-my-god! It simply can’t be. It’s impossible!

Maybe I’m dreaming, so I shut my eyes and rubbed them as hard as I could until my eyes hurt. I opened them once again and realized that the person in front of me is real… alive…then something else caught my attention…a walking stick on her white, skinny, candle-like right hand.

I was only able to go back to my senses when my ears heard her soft, frail voice asking, “Who is it?”

It took me a while before I replied, “I’m a wanderer. I’m new to this place and well, you see, I happen to pass by your house.”

“Really? It’s been a very long time before somebody actually knocked on my door. Who are you anyway?” she said with her face full of excitement, full of hope.

“Paris. Mr. Paris Haze”, I lied.

Then a strong wind blew from the West and all the excitement and hope on her face were being blown away by the wind. She gave me a forced smile and invited me inside her old shuttered house. I slowly entered. It looked like night-time inside; the air smelled like old leaves on autumn. A small beige couch is at the center of her parlor; in front of it is a small rectangular mahogany colored table with a plate of chocolate chip cookies; parallel to the table is a 27-inch television; and beside the couch is a CD player serenading us with an instrumental song which I guess is “Dream” by Yiruma. She turned on the lights and I saw several photographs and paintings in simple wooden frames hanging side-by-side against the wall like the perfect set of teeth of Michael Jackson.

“Seat down, please”, she said as she removed the CD from the player, returning the CD to its case, placing it to its rightful position. She got another CD from her drawer and played it in the player. Faith Hill’s song, “There You’ll Be” filled the emptiness of the room—or should I say of the whole house. Her skirt swung effortlessly as she gracefully turned with her walking stick to proceed to the kitchen on the back left side of the house to get some milk from the fridge.

“Do you need a hand?” I asked feeling concerned.

“No, I can manage it. Feel like home.” she answered with an independent tone.

After a short while, she returned to the parlor with a glass of milk on her left hand and placed it on the table to accompany the lonely plate of chocolate chip cookies. She went back to the kitchen to get another glass of milk.

I felt the sofa pressed lightly as she sat next to me on the right side of the couch. I secretly stared at her as her fragile hand reached for a cookie on the plate. Though it has been 12 years since I last saw her, I can say that she hasn’t changed a bit. Her curly brown hair is still long extending to her thighs. Her face is angelic as ever, her nose perfectly curved, her lips red as strawberries, her rosy cheeks, and her deep dimples—a live Lolita doll indeed. But then, she doesn’t have her honey-golden eyes anymore that gleamed like the northern star, Polaris as her eyelids lie flat, closed.

By the way Paris, my name is Ada. I’m sorry if it took me awhile before opening the door when you rang the doorbell. I fixed myself because I thought you were the one I’m expecting. But I highly appreciate you for being here to accompany me for a while.” she said, breaking the silence between us.

“Oh it’s nothing Ada, my pleasure…” I answered calmly as her words: ‘I fixed myself because I thought you were the one I’m expecting’ intrigued me. Who could that be? “…but if you’re waiting for someone, maybe I should go so that I won’t be a bother to you and to the person you’re expecting”, I added though my mind wanted me to say something else.

She faced my direction, flashed a big smile that made her dimples appear in her cheeks.

“In the 12 years of my stay, you’re my first visitor and I wouldn’t want you to leave immediately. It’s really boring just sitting inside the house, waiting for someone in 12 years, you know.” she answered with a chuckle. I giggled too and our laughter sounded like a duet of two melodies originally composed to be sung together.

I got a piece of chocolate chip cookies from the plate and dunked it to the milk and it totally tasted good. It made me feel like a 7 year old boy again. We both sat quietly while finishing our simple snack while the song “On My Own” from the musical Les Miserables played.

Noon came and we ate lunch—spaghetti. After enjoying a sumptuous meal, we went back to the parlor, both sitting silently, with the room imitating our silence as the player finished playing the last song from the CD.

My mind is flooded with unanswered questions, questions that can only be answered right here, right now. So I gathered all of my courage and I started asking her questions, and surprisingly, she answered it truthfully with an imperturbable face. She told me that when she came to this place, she was the one who built this house, carefully imitating the house she lived in when she was still an adolescent. She would only eat twice a day, skipping lunch just to finish the house. She tended the lawn, planted some tulips and roses—her favorite flowers—and admired the butterflies wandering around from one flower to another—the exact opposite of what it looks at present…oh if she can only see it. After 5 years (her allowable stay in this place), she had to sacrifice something, her tongue, her eyes, her ears, her arms, or her legs as a payment for her to be able to extend her stay in this place.

“It was never an easy choice. But then I decided that I would gladly sacrifice my eyes first as a payment for an additional 10 year stay so that if the person I’m waiting for arrives to fulfill his promise, I can still hear his strong yet quixotic voice, I can still tell him the things I want to say, and I can still hug him tightly when it’s time to…well, say goodbye. Besides, his image will forever stay in my mind.” she explained.

She told me that this person vowed to return to her no matter what happens and up until now, she’s holding on to that single promise. I felt a warm sensation all over my body, the kind of feeling when you’ve done something wrong when you were a kid and when your dad arrives home he tell you, “Son, we have to talk after dinner”.  I felt queasy on my seat; my face all white. I sipped the last milk left on my glass and it didn’t help me cool down the feeling I felt inside.

She faced my direction with a tear falling from her right eye. Being a man, I force to hold back my tears. I cleared my throat. I faced her and held her ethereal face with my left stone cold hand and gently wiped away her tear.

“Thanks.” she said.

I gently withdrew my hand from her face.

“I believe that the person you’re waiting for will fulfill his promise and I believe that he longs for you more than you could imagine.” I said in response.

“The sad thing is all I ever wanted was to hug him the day he left because I was afraid that I won’t have the chance to hug him again because I know that something is already wrong with me—with my health. I was afraid to tell it to him because I don’t want him to worry about me.” she said, with a lonesome voice.

Tears fell from my eyes silently.

She stood up, went in front of the player to play another set of songs.

I stood up, admiring her curly brown hair, her slender body, and her perfectly shaped buttocks. I wrapped her body in my arms, enveloping every bit of her…her body, her soul. She faced me and we breathe each other’s breath; and invisible cord connected our hearts together. I leaned forward—cherishing each second—and kissed her gently on her cheek; and to my surprise, she hugged me back tightly with all her might and she whispered in my ear: “I know you’ll come back for me. Thank you, Sky. I love you, good—…”

••••••••••••••••••••••••

Toot…toot…toot…toot…

“According to his vital status, it seems to me that everything is stable. We just don’t know when your son, Sky will wake up, Mrs. Stuart.”

“Thank you Dr. James.”

I heard several sound of medical apparatus and a manly voice that I never heard before. I gently opened my eyes and felt like being a new born baby, taking his first glance of the world.

…

            I completely recovered after a year. I felt happy because my body functions normally again, thus, I can do normal activities again like jogging, swimming, and the like.

January 30, 2012, Monday, I bought a bouquet of tulips and roses from a nearby florist and drove to Rose Hill Cemetery to visit Ada. I arrived at around 3 o’ clock in the afternoon. Don’t get me wrong though; I’m here, not only to free myself from the guilt I’m suffering for 12 years for not fulfilling my promise to Ada—that I’ll be back for her no matter what, for refusing to visit her grave when I received the news that she already died, several years ago; but to thank her for showing me how important it is to keep our promise, by showing me that she really hold on to my promise for more than a decade when we met at the limbo, when I was under comatose.

            I lay there on the ground beside Ada, watching the slow dance of the infinite stars.