good night, mom

It was a breezy evening on our parlor, Mom. It’s not quite clear whether it was about to dawn or to dusk. But the sky was starry, and the weather was cold.

I was sitting there, tickling my guitar, making lonely melodies. There was you, sitting right beside me. You spoke none. But I felt like seeing a delicate smile on your face, shone by the dimming street light.

We’re both drown in our silence. I knew you want to say something, but then decided to keep quiet, letting me enjoy my play. I think you chose thanking the Lord for this situation.

And there was someone, on my left side. A man I could not see his face. But in that situation, my heart was assured that he is my father. Somehow I just knew that he’s a kind of a figure of my father. And somehow, too, I was sure that he was not the man I called ‘father’ now.

He spoke something so unclear and subtle that swallowed by the whisper of the bamboo leaves in the abandoned park beside our home, separated by the street. Sometimes you responded to what he said, Mom. And every time you did it, the smiles on your face looked clearer, and the situation got warmer.

But I didn’t respond to what you both said. I just kept playing my guitar like I used to do when we were together, just you and I.

And as usual, I enjoyed the situation. I felt the warmth so clear that I could even feel the magic in the air. I could see the breeze passed us, floating like a thin white silk from your side, passed my finger and my chest, went to dad’s side.

There we were, drawn in our silence, in our unspoken cherish. Our heart communicated so… so deep that I want to be there forever, till I opened up my eyes and found myself lying on bed alone. A drop of tears was rolling from my eyes.

…

Good night, Mom. God loves you better than me.