Contest Entries

Phoenix

Liriko 2's Knockouts Round Entry.

--

Phoenix

by superjelly

            Smoke.

            The last of her cigarette starts to diminish and I stare at the ashes as they fall down the tray that is laying on the windowsill. I am afraid that as the fog thickens, she'll be gone in front of me and will get sucked by the mist of air that comes out from her mouth. I've seen her smoked ever since I was fifteen (disgusted by the smell of the burning cigarettes), but twenty-three years later, I feel a strange sense of relief. It is as if it is the most natural thing for me to see and I wouldn't trade anything for that image of her.

            Her lips form a faint smile as the moonlight drapes upon her face. I have always wondered why she loves looking at the moon; she looks at it more often than she does with the mirror. At that time I then realize the reason why: it is, in certain truth, her own true reflection— the moon that is pale and sick with grief as she is.

            She lets out another smoke and afterwards starts to sing a song. A forgotten lullaby I've heard when I was still a kid, something she used to sing to me for me to sleep. I cannot make sense of the lyrics she is uttering, but I know that the sound of her voice already holds much meaning.

            "Mama," I say.

            She stops from singing. She lets out another smoke.

            I see her tap her fingers on the table beside her. "I think you should finish that," I say, eyeing the cigarette that she holds between her fingers.

            She lets out another smoke, exhaling a huge amount of breath— so much that it almost fills the whole room, giving it a new color. The room is full of smoke that I already find it hard to breathe. She exhales once more and finally throws the rest of the cigarette into the ashtray. 

            "John,"

            I lean towards her. "Yes?"

            "I think I need to smoke a cigarette. It's been years since I last had one."  

            Fire.

            I have always admired my mother. She has exemplified to us, her children, how every woman should be, in her words and action. She was, and still is, the epitome of beauty and grace. No, it is not because of her looks. It isn't as shallow as that. She is beautiful because she was a strong woman. She raised five children on her own, worked very hard with her job and at the same time gave her very best to spend some time with her children. She never missed a single special event in my life— she was there in her ragged uniform and haggard looks when I graduated from high school, she was there when I needed someone when I experienced my first break up, she was there when my wife delivered our first baby... She has always been there beside me, beside us... But like how every child who sprouted as matured adults, we started to leave her one by one.

            Should have I known that leaving her would cause the fire inside her, I should have never done that. I should have stayed.

            Because the fire is burning me. If the moment I left the house and closed the door behind her figure, I should have stayed. If doing so would be able to prevent from the fire from spreading, if it did not begin the spark in her...

            I should have.

            But I didn't.

            Flames. Incipient flames. When my father died when I was only seven years old, I've never seen my mother cry. She would always smile and tell us that she'll take care of us. She would always tell us that everything will be fine. At that age, I believed in her. I believed in her because happiness was drawn all over her place with her cheerful laughter and her wide smile. At that time, I never knew that my father's death would be the ignition of this fire. How could I? I thought my mother was burning with flames that shine above us. I thought she was like the sun, this massive ball of fire that lightened us up.