Lola Said, "Santa is Asleep"

  

“In peace, may you leave this shore. 
In love, may you find the next. 
Safe passage on your travels, 
until our final journey to the ground. 
May we meet again." ― The 100

 

     A raging, invisible war, our fight against COVID-19 was and it still is. Because although we are here now, breathing a little easier compared to a rougher year of 2021, can we really say that "we've made it"? 

   I once viewed death as an influence powerful enough for us humans to perceive life meaningfully despite being relatively short as compared to our indefinite travel beyond it. But such a futile attempt at avoiding fear all my abstraction was. Before we knew it, Death walked on Earth like a drunken man, frequenting unexpected places, knocking at door after door with an unquenchable thirst. 

   These two years, many have known loss unwillingly. Many also teetered the thin line between desperation and blind faith, clinging onto any form of hope, no matter how small the chances became as months flew by. Some others found a blink of light despite the dark years, tunneling through each day of the pandemic. But some others had really reached the end of the line, failing to grasp at the last thread of life, falling into nothingness. 

       So, to them who are now sleeping on oceans of clouds and to those who now walk below it, remembering their last moments, I offer only this:

"Makahiya"

I have never been jealous

of sunlight so gentle,

bathing you in warmth,

painting bright hues

 

on your soft white hair.

My tender rest, come

the falling tower of dreams

despite my prayer.

 

I have never been scared

when little shadows once appeared

here on our bed.

Your back, behind where

 

I once hid,

come July of cold rain,

come our most intimate need.

“You know, I’ll still be here.”

 

I have never offered so many tears

from these eyes before

since I begged and wished upon

the sky, our favorite sight,

 

to stretch our days and make forever our nights.

“Good morning” was never this hard.

Alone in your silence,

in my smallest voice, I whispered

 

what lovers must tell

in each other’s presence.

My only witness are the birds,

whose song the only thing I heard,

 

reminding you won’t answer. I ask them,

has he always been this fond of makahiya leaves?

So much that he bends his cold body

So shy, at my last touch, he sleeps.

-Cynen S.S who wrote this, still without sleep