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My Dear Willy

MY DEAR WILLY

It'd been three days ago when I began to notice his coldness; he's mum and I assume him was ill. It'd been three nights ago when I felt that his warmth was dying and he nevermore did things he usually does such as tucking me in at night, wreathing me with his arms; always served me for I am visually impaired and I supposed, everyone thought that I am not thinking like a normal person does, at least that is what my dear Willy told me. He added that it's because I am special; that I was sent for him, to make him the "most fortunate" man alive. Willy, he's the sole person I knew in my twenty winters of existence. I couldn't remember the first time we set our hearts to each other. According to him, there were the cherubs playing with my hair, the star in my eyes which led him to faith or the angels with trumpets, no piece of them I could remember. I was deprived of memories of the days and nights preceding that. The only thing I have treasured and remembered is merely my dear Willy's memory, with me, together.

Willy is three years older than me. Because when I got to my twentieth year, he was aging twenty-three. He often told me that we're bound together, in God's eye and in law. That was since the day we went somewhere which I heard him once calling a house of God.

I asked him, "Who is God, my dear Willy?"

"God is He Who gave you to me," he answered. "And I wished he would give me more time to be with you, or just an adequate time to heal you emotionally." That was the most difficult sentence I had ever heard from him.

Well, not if you include his sentence asking me to just say YES! if the priest begins chanting words like sickness or health. He explained to me what would that mean, but I didn't really listen. I'd do whatever he wanted me to do, to say, or to do.

My dear Willy was a poet; he read some of his works for me and bored me very much like the one I am muddled The Heaven of A Hundred Corpse. The story was usually in verse but then he rewrote it in prose form, or how I heard it, he wrote it without wasting spaces unlike poems. Well I knew about literature perhaps some; still and all, it was the only thing I knew I could boast of aside from my dear Willy. And how delicious grilled squids are. Some of his works figures in When Roses Refuse To Bloom, Old Orlando, Unfortunately and other else that were written way before he brought me home. But none of them caught the attention of the public.

"I was not so happy about myself when I failed those times." he told me after I asked him. "But one day, I realized why. The main reason I was writing was to find youth , I'm not getting any younger, you know." He chuckled. "I guess, I was just wrong. I already have it." He kissed my temple softly and tenderly as we lay on bed.

However, that was him talking.

One time, I heard him and his friend talking in the front porch.

"---trying to make you understand but your judgement over this matter is too clouded!" An adult man was shouting at him. I was hurting for my dear Willy for he sounded calm and not shouting back. I didn't want to hear him do so. He never got angry because of me. "All right. All right." The man's voice at last calmed. "Why don't we hire someone to take care of her, and don't worry, I'll handle the expense of it, then you work, go back to your nest and cuddle every damn week or even semiweekly, hoard golds then voilà! You're a happy man, brother!" He sounded not right.

"I already am." My dear Willy was calm as the ocean at night. "I am very much content, Pete." He said with hidden anger although the man couldn't sense that. I felt it.

I didn't know what the man was talking about. Maybe they were simply discussing problems about their relatives and acquaintances, or games with balls in it or work. Or work possibly. It didn't matter though whom the man was talking, but my dear Willy...he did mind.