Keyholes To Flowerage

I. Keyholes to Flowerage

KEYHOLES TO FLOWERAGE

April & Mary Joy,

I no longer asked why we turned out to be like this. We understood each other way too much-we plotted to run through fresh cut grasses with our bare feet, unaware of the wounds and thunders it would storm. We declared maturity against our development speeds as minors-we planted a bonsai, watered it with so much affection as we anticipated it to grow tall, that's where we began to perfume the garden with unbosoms of turbidity and myriads of annoyances at our unique temperaments. Yes, we were both burdensome and unhealthy; both inspirational and sinewy.

-Marceline

I. Keyholes to Flowerage

AH... TRAIN RIDES. At certain times, the clogging of plate numbers and engines are akin to fragrance of buogainvilleas-of tranquility. At certain times, train rides come in a form of clouds, gentle as they participate in a cluster of doves. But at certain times, train rides not merely offer me to come home but also hand me a pause. A kind of pause that slithers in my organ, that takes away my sleep deprivation, and that prompts me to scrounge my own physique out from a photograph.

I was always suffocated by the redundant silent treatment from April, it was a lot painful than a bucket of words writhing inside my consciousness. Bullets escaping out from a metallic chamber, her stares. Tattered pages out from a journal unravelling rages and blames, her words.

Every single day of meeting her is repetition of old movie clips excerpted from our memories. Clips of silly grins, of shots of laughs. Clips of holding hands, of blooming friendship we watered before. Clips of Mary Joy beaming pink and beige. It was whirlwind, her abrupt camouflages.

The heaviest part of watching these clips redundantly is that they're now nothing but an image of us; the three of us-holding hands together, facing the expanded horizon of orange afternoon, standing tall in one line as we took records of every smile and sigh-in my room.

"Hey." Mary Joy pointed finger the beauty of sky that could only be captured in exhibits of paintings, appearing like cotton candies sketched across the transparent surface. "What if I go there?"

April outpoured rains and joy by hearing such from her.

"You're so mean, April!" Mary Joy pouted.

"Silly, Mary Joy. That's anything near to impossible, alright." April's feather-head settled on my lap. I rested under the shades of olive tree so she could feel comfortable even more.

"Not unless I die, right?"

"Mary Joy..." Carving out her name through my voice brought raindrops onto my surface. I was so certain I loved saying her name, hearing my own voice mention thereof felt different in many ways as though it had been a triad of years since I last spoke of it.

Settled nearby the window train, the walkway through our house reflected crystal in it. I attempted to untangle the knots of moments I had with Mary Joy and April to alleviate the pang that paralyzed me as a whole. Although the vibrances of pessimistic hues of our moments were nothing foreign to me, I'm still managing to keep the constant of not failing to hope that someday, I would be able to brush pink and blues-just like the usual. Even without Mary Joy.

I REACHED the prologue of walkway and joined the waltzing sands. The cold brushed of Northern wind demanded my quick pace, numbers of leaves dropping off the branches paralleled my quickened jazz, which didn't surprise me. I was clothed with myrrh and cinnamon, perfumed with sweats and summer season when I reached home.

"One season left before graduation, any plans after high school?" I answered both silence and stare.

"Marceline."

"Mom, I..." I lowered my gaze, my tone adhered it. "I-I don't see myself in the future. I mean, will it be okay if I spend a year figuring out what I really want in life? I mean, look-"

Mom carried the glass of water, kept it full and cold as she eyed me. "The time doesn't favor the youth anymore, Marceline."

"We're not rich nor are we that poor. But life's obliging us to build our own definitions of success, to attend our purposes in life. You have what, three months or five; sufficient for you to develop a dream and to aspire." I observed how Mom drink the water, so graceful and cautious. I've always been envious of how certain she always is in life.

I was demi-persuaded, demi-glad. My mother was an active dreamer, full of bulbs and vibes, so avid to reach the Urban City to make her ideals in life tangible. If my mind's serving me right, she wanted to be a museum directress, but surrendered when she found out the art industry was already beautiful and whole. She got married to Dad after that, though.

BENEATH THE manifestation of black and white; of night and stars, I calculated the activities I did within the seven months of taking naps in the midst of classes, shelling behind the walls, sorting my participation out from my classmates, running away from bullies, eliminating my kind from throngs of uniformed skeletons, failing to gain high grades and waiting for April to acknowledge me down the school gate.

I permitted sighs of disappointment out, realizing I did nothing sort of good and laudable. I slumbered the lamps, the moon rays travelled through the windows, through the each hole of roofs and walls.

"What shenanigans are you doing there, Mary Joy?" April paused to park her mountain bike. She paved a question mark on her face, mayhap asking why I was tolerating Mary Joy to get dirt from wet soils.

"I couldn't stop her, she was irresistibly eager to do so."

"What do you wanna be, though? A gardener?" Giggles were audible as we settled under the same olive tree, watching Mary Joy finish gardening.

"I..." She gazed upon the sky, declaring her desires to go up there. "I want to be happy."

Withering memories of Mary Joy demanded my back to get up, I tucked my legs into my pounding chest. I stayed silent for the next two minutes. My brows furrowed and poured a raindrop, then another. Thousands of them flowed.

By this abrupt breakdown, I can tell the roots of it. I know. I'm broken. Lost. Melancholic. Undecided. Scared. And they are not exquisite. They are not anything like what Mary Joy told us before.