I had a dream that my mom took away one of my shelves where I place the books I’ve already read. They were transferring it to a different room. I was screaming, crying, and thrashing on the floor like a pathetic gif meme. I asked why she did what she did, but I didn’t demand her to take my shelf back. Somehow, I knew it wasn’t an option or it wasn’t ever going to be the same again anyway.
When someone very important to you leaves, you wake up the next day to a morning much quieter. The rustle of the leaves are there, the honking cars, the wind chimes, the dogs, cats, people ordering other people around, but somehow, a bunch of memories and possibilities is vacuumed into this tiny little bag, moved to wherever this important person is going. It seems like all the chatter you have made or you will make with this person is silenced. A montage splashes on the TV screen, the images of you and this person, until someone presses the mute button and turns off the TV. You and this person are sucked into this little white dot, the screen turning black like an inverted explosion.
Plenty of our time together was spent on you playing the guitar and me singing along like a child wheezing in air, always in constant need of your guidance when to hit the notes high or low or how the rhythm goes. Outside our sessions (as it was called in the time of dying Filipino pop-rock and the peak of Freestyle and Side A), I could never sing properly. But you always dragged me along, always humored my insistence, my requests to play this or that, instead of actually hanging more with individuals who actually had talent and could pick out the chords or notes of any song by ear.
You always made me have fun.