Saturday, 24 October 2015
Bella
Wednesday, 14 October 2015
The Gentle Melody of A Mother's Broken Heart
He was three months short of his third birthday when the authorities finally legalised all the paperwork required for him to be hers. She recalled the first time she took him home, a newly remodelled shotgun house at the end of the street leading to the cemetery.
She remembered how challenging it was for her to coax him out of his shell for the first few years. How forlorn she felt whenever he decided to retreat into his own world, shutting everyone out for hours, sometimes for days until end.
When he was eight he finally learned to call him mummy. Oh, how her heart blossomed when she heard the long awaited word came out of his small, chapped lips! She shed a tear or two that day; for it was also the first time she saw him smiled at him.
…
He didn't come home on his fifteenth birthday. She grew anxious as each second pass by. Tick, tick, tick. It was 25 minutes to 2am. Yet she hasn't moved an inch from the dining chair, her index finger gently tugging the string of a party popper.
"Where is he?" she wondered? She had tried calling him numerous times, each time reaching only to the same monotonous voice of the voicemail lady. She closed her eyes and prayed for solace of mind. It didn't help.
She jolted up when she heard someone knocking her front door. She quickly ran to open it, hoping it would be her son.
"Damien-" She stopped. In front of her stood two police officers, drenched from the pouring rain. Her eyes wondered wildly at them. Somehow she was expecting what they were about to say. "It's about your son," they started. She inhaled sharply, preparing herself for the news.
"We're sorry ma'am. Your son is dead."
…
The funeral ended hours ago but she remained rooted at the foot of his grave. The tears streaming down her face seemed endless. She was inconsolable. Each time she shut her eyes, she relived that fateful night when she had learned of his death. 'Fatal gunshot at the skull' the autopsy report read.
She felt she has failed as a mother. Just like how her mother had failed her.
She was alone again. The one person who brought light upon her lonely soul has passed. How was she to live?
Never again will she hear her son call out for her. Never again will she able to kiss his scarred cheek each morning before he went to school. Never again will they be able to exchange "I love you" or "Goodnight."
Despite her sadness, she had prayed for his journey to the afterlife. "Rest well, my boy. Someday we'll see each other again."
She remembered how challenging it was for her to coax him out of his shell for the first few years. How forlorn she felt whenever he decided to retreat into his own world, shutting everyone out for hours, sometimes for days until end.
When he was eight he finally learned to call him mummy. Oh, how her heart blossomed when she heard the long awaited word came out of his small, chapped lips! She shed a tear or two that day; for it was also the first time she saw him smiled at him.
…
He didn't come home on his fifteenth birthday. She grew anxious as each second pass by. Tick, tick, tick. It was 25 minutes to 2am. Yet she hasn't moved an inch from the dining chair, her index finger gently tugging the string of a party popper.
"Where is he?" she wondered? She had tried calling him numerous times, each time reaching only to the same monotonous voice of the voicemail lady. She closed her eyes and prayed for solace of mind. It didn't help.
She jolted up when she heard someone knocking her front door. She quickly ran to open it, hoping it would be her son.
"Damien-" She stopped. In front of her stood two police officers, drenched from the pouring rain. Her eyes wondered wildly at them. Somehow she was expecting what they were about to say. "It's about your son," they started. She inhaled sharply, preparing herself for the news.
"We're sorry ma'am. Your son is dead."
…
The funeral ended hours ago but she remained rooted at the foot of his grave. The tears streaming down her face seemed endless. She was inconsolable. Each time she shut her eyes, she relived that fateful night when she had learned of his death. 'Fatal gunshot at the skull' the autopsy report read.
She felt she has failed as a mother. Just like how her mother had failed her.
She was alone again. The one person who brought light upon her lonely soul has passed. How was she to live?
Never again will she hear her son call out for her. Never again will she able to kiss his scarred cheek each morning before he went to school. Never again will they be able to exchange "I love you" or "Goodnight."
Despite her sadness, she had prayed for his journey to the afterlife. "Rest well, my boy. Someday we'll see each other again."
Saturday, 3 October 2015
On The Notion Of All Things Beautiful
Most often I see beauty in the simplest things; a baby's first laugh, for instance, or when I see an old couple holding hands while walking down the boulevard. Even when I see a young family of four eating their dinner at the local diner.
There's also beauty when I see a people dance in the rain, not caring the about the cold bullets of water seeping through their clothes.
.
.
.
They're all beautiful.
I see beauty in sadness too.
I think when you're beautiful when you cry. Your salt like tears streaming down your cherub cheeks as you huddle at the corner of your room, trying to block out the pains that the world is causing you.
I think you're beautiful when I see you so focused in what you're doing. Your desolate eyes transfixed on the computer, your long, thin fingers typing away each word by word the sad story of a young murder victim you so carefully narrated in your head.
I think you're beautiful when I see trying your best to hide away the evident pain plastered on your face. You're beautiful when you try to convince the world around you that you are okay, even when your whole world has crumbled down to nothing but debris ready to be washed away by the endless sea.
.
.
.
Learn to believe that you are beautiful. Because you are, no matter what those demons in your head say. You are.
I hope when you can finally see the beauty in you, you will be able to see beauty in other people too.
There's also beauty when I see a people dance in the rain, not caring the about the cold bullets of water seeping through their clothes.
.
.
.
They're all beautiful.
I see beauty in sadness too.
I think when you're beautiful when you cry. Your salt like tears streaming down your cherub cheeks as you huddle at the corner of your room, trying to block out the pains that the world is causing you.
I think you're beautiful when I see you so focused in what you're doing. Your desolate eyes transfixed on the computer, your long, thin fingers typing away each word by word the sad story of a young murder victim you so carefully narrated in your head.
I think you're beautiful when I see trying your best to hide away the evident pain plastered on your face. You're beautiful when you try to convince the world around you that you are okay, even when your whole world has crumbled down to nothing but debris ready to be washed away by the endless sea.
.
.
.
Learn to believe that you are beautiful. Because you are, no matter what those demons in your head say. You are.
I hope when you can finally see the beauty in you, you will be able to see beauty in other people too.
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