Memory

As I think, much to my disappointment, I recover from my missing memories a long lost fiery loudness, echoing but eloquently above the dark chambers or my beating abyss of a soul. I remember red, and orange, and yellow, all over the nipa walls of my early childhood. As I silently scream with my eyes, I thought, no one, not even my distinct soprano, can pierce through the menacing laughter of the sunset demons engulfing out tiny nipa hut.

I dare not cry. Even as shouts from outside tell me to, I cried not because I was told to, but because at that moment, I firmly believed that all hope is lost. And as a small two-year-old, I had my first encounter of Death—full on face value. I accepted it as if it were a friend; a darkness which I came from not two years back, visiting me and telling me that my strings are to be cut by fire.

Death's hand from behind the flames reached in and I began to reach out. I held it strong, not willing to let go. I have already decided that I welcome its dark embrace. It pulls me up and I stand, surrounded with laughing demons, and I took a step forward. It grabbed me and held me in its arms, carried me outside. I held on, latched myself in its arms and let it decide where to take me.

From the white-hot flames burning my eyes came dark blurry shadows. I could not smell the fire anymore that I could feel it. Everything was cold and I could hear the shouts of the people outside—I am outside!

My carrier was running, holding me in his arms like a baby. I was bouncing up and down but I clutched onto his shirt, not wanting to let go. I could smell the outside night-time air. I could see people. I felt the cold air, fresh enough for me to breathe safely.

Death did not carry me outside, my father did. He held out his hand to me and pulled me from the fire. He carried me outside and put me to safety. I was ready, too ready; to embrace Death but my father pulled me and carried me in his arms.

But between the silence of the dawn the next day and the slowly murmuring embers, I knew in my heart of hearts the Death that will one day get me again, and when it does, I am ready.

Abc