“goodbye past.”

“hello, future” part i of ii by Aurora “goodbye past.”

But when I look back at you, I see a strong young girl who endured and persevered. The past bore memories of static shouts, words uttered in thunderous frequencies while your very arms comforted your body painted in blues and violets. Back then, those memories lived in a home built out of hurt and you endured what you weren’t supposed to—for none of that was deserved by anyone. Sometimes your thoughts narrate that maybe you were the reason for the words that pierced your skin like a knife, and the hands that stained your skin with hurtful colors. But you didn’t hold the knife, and those hands weren’t yours. The wrongdoings of your parents aren’t yours to carry. They are not excused for carrying their own bucket of hurt and pouring it onto their children. They were and still are: wrong. What they did deserve consequences. I want you to know that the blame isn’t yours when they screamed in handcuffs, and that your choice was right when you asked for help and unlocked your heart. You helped yourself and your siblings be freed from a life of terror. Remember that a life of happiness can be chosen, and there is always a path outside darker things. If I were to share something about myself, it would be that I am healing. You take your time to heal, so do not treat it as a race. I began to unwrap my heart and soul to those who truly cared for me, for they are like a fresh spring devoid of any toxicity. I also learned to love my own being, down to the very core of my soul. I feel: happiness, freedom, love—and I always sense the faint hint of joy in every passing day. I’m not lonely, not alone. I have people who care, truly. My siblings—they’re happy as well. We’re healing together, supporting each other. They grew up so fast, you know? I found a passion, an everyday I look forward to. I fit with the people I am with, as if we were all made in a set. Maybe I’ll even have romantic endeavors someday, who knows? I know it all seems like some alternate reality, a too-good-to-be-true fairy tale, but believe it. You’ll see soon enough. You’ll be able to live it. Every single one of these good things will happen to you, for you and I will.

Sincerely, Alice, from a happier time

With the last stroke of ink, her letter was finished. Delicately, she folded and secured it inside the spaces of the envelope, next to the zip-lock she prepared for good measure. She stared at it for a while, unable to perceive her thoughts which fluttered and settled through the once blank paper. The woman found herself smiling. It was as if her heart had been emptied of all its excess baggage, and her shoulders were no longer affected by double the gravity even when she arrived at the setting. The well looks as if it took camouflage amongst the earth. Vines and moss slithered around it. Still—to the woman, in spite of the withered scenery, it looked the same as it did all those years ago. Carefully, she found herself walking, each step heavier than all those buckets she carried from the abyssal body of water. She approached with a peek, but it was enough for the memories at the back of her mind to take the lead.

The water still reflected what the sky presents, and this time it was the color of pastel blue and messy cotton white. The woman had never found something more beautiful, even after all these long years. She felt the splitting of her heart—present’s excitement and past’s dread—when she thought back to those years, of how people masked and covered encompassing the yard of their cottage—it’s as if the small space was rained upon by the heavens and was the only known place of peace when she was younger. The water is tender. It’s good. A companion. Though the beauty of the well entranced her, it was not the reason she came here today. For years she did not step a foot near this place, but it was now the time.

The woman exhaled a breath, “It was not easy coming back here, but here I am. I will no longer be afraid of you. I’m healing—slowly and taking time—but still healing.” She rummaged through her purse, and in her hand was an envelope safely tucked inside a zip-lock bag. She held it, as if it were the most precious thing in the world. With care, she reached out to the wooden bucket that hung by the well, and put the envelope inside it. She gave the rope connected to it a slight tug, afraid that even the wispy weight of the paper might break it. Finally at ease, she guided the bucket deeper into the well.

The bucket and liquid met each other with a splash. Water seeped through; soaking the waterproof bag, but not a single drop touched the parchment that lay inside. Instead, it was as if the words knew that the water would be unable to reach them, so they escaped through the tiniest cracks. They rode the pattern; ink mixing with fresh water until it was corrupted, streaming through the almost endless pit of earth the well marked above. “I hope the message follows the water’s flow, and arrives in your hands.” Hazily—unclear from being muddled because of the water’s roughness—the ink began to form words.

ARE YOU PREPARED, FOR THE END’S UNRAVELING?

KAPAWA

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