Penultimate Ruer Torculas
“I can see it already.”
He meekly submits himself unknowingly to the parade of birds singing in chorus from his orchard. He catches his breath at every minute, trying to suffice to live— at least for a little while longer. Basking in the earthly warmth of his porch, he recollects the likeness of it to the embrace of his late mother, caressing him to sleep. “I did not think we’ll meet this much sooner, Mama,” letting out a deep breath as he settles himself comfortably to recount every fragmented memory engraved in his mind. “I used to become an artist, a writer, and a storyteller the least,” he reminisces. He forced his hand to scribble the words and figures to his worn-out notebook of listings of his great adventures and discoveries. With an extensive effort, he composes his last entry— an epilogue before the embarkation towards his creator. “I used to write them, live with them, and a moment from now, I get to be a story to be read,” he says with an inaudible sound. “With my last hope, I wish death will be as comforting for me.” Turning to the direction across his orchard, he muses in the sight of the flowers from years of nursing. The wind blows a gust, rocking his rattan chair back and forth, as the birds serenade in an increasing volume. It is like a conductor flicking his baton for the final act— a moment to behold.
Then it becomes silent.
The virtuoso’s pen and rose-beaded rosary which he grasps religiously, falls on the flimsy oak wooden floor, signaling the curtain call.
Illustration by Emmy Nava
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