03.12.07

A Grim Mnemonic

Posted in 2007 Mosaic at 4:38 am by Miracle ♪♫

One-thirty ante meridiem. There was an impatient rhythmic vibration on my right hand. I had fallen asleep in the middle of composing a text
message when suddenly my phone became a trembling miserable gadget. Suspecting that it was just another obnoxious
prank call, my eyes remained shut as I disinterestedly felt for the answer
button.

A soft beep. Silence. Next an anonymous impassive voice spoke, “Your friend was shot.
He’s dead.” Another soft beep.

My heart halted. I
choked. Tears surged through my eyes. By
some clairvoyant perception, I instantly knew who the voice meant. I groped my way out of bed and aimlessly
through the darkness. I wailed
despairingly. I was inconsolable.

Then I woke up… still panting and sobbing distressingly. It was all a dratted nightmare, and my
endeared friend was miles away doubtlessly snoring peacefully – an all too
different kind of resting in peace. When
I had regained my calmness, I wished to call him, but decided not to bother the
dear soul for I was confident that he was well and safe, somewhere, somehow harboring his own dreams.

I haven’t had a nightmare in years! The last time was when I
was still a little girl and I envisioned that I had lost my mom.  Since then
I never underestimated Mama’s value nor did I for one second take her for granted. I
am not superstitious, but these nightmares serve as mnemonics or reminders to make me fathom the worth of who I love,
the same individuals I cannot do without.  Heaven knows losing my family and prized friends is one of my greatest fears.

Whether it be a lover, a friend, an acquaintance, a
grandparent, a brother, a sister, a mom, or a dad, one should not wait
for dreadful circumstances to occur before understanding the significance of a person.  The wretched dream itself was unbearable, and its actuality
unthinkable, and because of that I no longer wish to make that age-old blunder of disguising how I really feel about my loved ones and holding back what aches to be said.  I was the chicken who repeatedly avoided crossing the road, and for sheer chickeness I have learned that one can lose so much. It’s odd how these phantasmagorias frighten yet synchronously teach me courage.
—

When I finally narrated the dream to my friend, and of course, admitting the fear of losing him
(I was still
in an ambiguous state of mourning and extremely sober-minded), he playfully said he would bequeath all his books to
me when he died. That was cruel of him,
teasing my fragile heart. Hmpf!

I’d rather have you than your books, silly. Besides, if I really want those books badly, I
will sneak them away from you even now while you are alive. That way I’ll have the best of both worlds… (Meewa begins to fancy the Kunderas, G. G. Marquezes, Collettes, etc.)
Now it’s your turn to sob. Hee =P

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An oil painting by Frederich Lord Leighton

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