Half Drunk Reflections

It's not strange for me to fill hours of my time with a drink in hand. It's usually not as strong as I usually prefer it but it gets me going. Maybe, it's the high I get from the exotic tea one of my friends gave me. I don't know much why around this time, I swivel my chair to face the window overlooking the street. My hand would end up in my hand and my feet would end up on the armrest, my heels dangling from my feet.

The office is quiet and the jazz music that usually dances in my room has softened to blues. The playlist barely discernable from the noise of the bustle below.

My mug is filled with my alcohol of choice, my only companion.

Today, I got a call from my mother. My grandaunt had been in the hospital for a while now and life really blocked me from going to her side. That and my own melodrama stopped me from seeing her.

I closed my eyes and I remember warm summer days in our holiday house. I was younger, my hair brushing against my shoulders and my dress fluttering about me. I ran around the large property checking in the kitchen and in the dining hall. My feet pattering progressively as I directed the caterers here and there on my grandmother's orders.

People came filtering in, loud and boisterously. Usually, I stood beside my grandfather greeting the guests or with my mother in the kitchen but not this day. I sat near the driveway, grass around me. I was waiting for special people. My people, I had considered.

A van pulls up and a boisterous laugh came from its open doors. I ran.

I jumped into my granduncle's arms giggling. My granduncle Edgar carried me in his arms while my hand reached for the woman behind him, my grandaunt Susan. Our fingers intertwined as she smiled at me gleefully before she turned to her husband's assistant instructing him to deliver the food they brought to the kitchen.

I had spent that day at their side, joyfully. My people.

Now, I realized how crazy it may seem. I had always considered them my people because I grew up with my grandparents and they were constant factors of my youth. The people who taught me to be joyful and believe in love and life.

I was older when my granduncle died. I remember sitting by his deathbed, my eyes tearing up yet forcing myself not to. I had only ever cried once but never in front of another. The only marker was the tear stains on the pages of my journal and the words.

" He died today. Goodbye."

At his funeral, I held my little sister's hand and stood far away from my uncle's coffin. At the wake, I served food and drinks to the guests. It's what I could do. He was, after all, someone I greatly loved. Even when I had to stay awake for three days, I did not even flinch. He was my worth it. Always.

Did that affect how I dealt with death? A grudging acceptance and the silence. I don't cry at funerals, I hide behind a pair of shades and show the deepest indifference. I don't want them to see me cry. I want to celebrate their life and all they taught me.

Now, I've gotten over half the bottle and think.

I'm not scared of death. For a time, I embraced it and sought it. I'm scared of loss. The marks they leave us is so much deeper than we have ever thought. It scars us.

I had promised to take care of her.

But she took care of me and mine. My person never showed she was sick. Whenever I visited, she would welcome me with open arms and walk with me all over the town she lived. She would never forget to hold my hand and smile. She worried over me. She was my constant supporter.

I had promised to take care of her.

"What can I do, now ?" I said to myself. I can feel the tears beginning to pool at the corner of my eyes.

She had seen the scars on my wrist and smiled at me. Unlike all the responses I had gotten, she just held my hand in hers with her fingers on the scars. I left her that day with a novena, my only copy, hoping it brings her the warmth I thought I could not give.

I hadn't seen her for years. The last time she had seen me I had ran from all the shit life threw at me. The last time, I was broken beyond belief. She had seen me growing up with a halo and then with broken wings.

Will she be proud of me, now ? I don't have wings anymore nor a halo. I have no right to stand on a pedastal.

Will my person still love me when I hadn't fulfilled my promise ? Will my uncle forgive me when he asks her ?

Will someone love me as deeply as they had ?

So, I sit here drunk off my ass the afternoon light spilling over my skin with the blues drowning out my sobs.

I write this so when I'm sober, I remember that love exists and, sometimes, people will leave you but that is not the end of your lovestory.

They will always always be my people. The people who taught me to love without fear and love honestly. People who continue to teach me to be a light in the life of others even when mine is dim.