Your emergence into this world begins with your first inhalation. Your transition out of this world begins after your final exhalation. Although the circumstances vary, both moments are inevitable and common denominators for everyone. A little or a lot, if you are drawing air into your lungs, removing the oxygen component and releasing the byproduct, then you’re living. Breathing is a fundamental and imperative basis for each person’s existence.

So, the standard by which we measure the caliber of our life shouldn’t be how deep a breath we take. A purpose-driven life comes from how we utilize our talents during and between respirations. Success, and failure, is what gives value to time. Having value to time is indicative of leading a quality life. Looking back on where we were in relation to where we are will prove if our lives are meaningful.

A breath’s intensity doesn’t matter. The toddler’s small puff of air is sufficient for blowing out two birthday candles. That’s enough to give her a sense of pride while bringing joy to those sitting around the table applauding the feat. Whispering “I love you and will see you again someday,” to an unresponsive spouse in hospice care delivers both a reminder and a promise that exemplifies the commitment to a decades-long union. The cancer patient in remission belts out, with full, forceful exhalation, Auld Lang Syne as a defiant proclamation of victory. Screaming at the top of your lungs, “I deserve better,” is a cathartic empowerment. All these impactful moments were made possible using differing volumes of air.

Whether dealing with COPD or training for an Olympic marathon, an individual can make a difference in the world. Rejoice in whatever amount of air you’re breathing. If it yields positive results, your life is full.

His wife of 47 years had passed away on Christmas day of 2021 from COVID-19. In the ICU at the local hospital she had licked, with what was left of her saliva, the envelope to seal the present she wanted to leave for him.

And just in time. By the time he had arrived to visit her that day, the nurses were removing her catheter and IVs. She had been pronounced dead just minutes earlier. Bedside, his grieving wasn't melodramatic, for he was a private man. But the nurse there could see the deep sorrow.

"Mr. Sanchez," she said.

"Yes?"

"Your wife wanted me to give you this." The nurse handed him the sealed envelope. He took it from her and read his wife's last words:

MERRY CHRISTMAS, LOVE OF MY LIFE. THIS GIFT IS AS MUCH FOR ME AS IT IS FOR YOU — DO NOT OPEN UNTIL CHRISTMAS 2025

Sanchez seemed puzzled. "Did she say anything about this?"

"No," the nurse replied, "just that I make sure you got it."

His daughter had flown in for her funeral. Together, when they had returned to his house after the cremation and services three days later, she saw the envelope he had placed on the mantle, above the Christmas stockings. She picked it up, which seemed to upset him.

“Don’t open that!” he said in a panicked tone.

“Oh, no, no way,” she said, reading what had been inscribed on the front. She replaced it from where she had retrieved it and walked over to hug him. “Mom was always a genius at getting you just the thing you needed each Christmas.”

He smiled at her. “What in the world would she think I would need in three years?”

“I don’t know. That was her thing. But she had a perfect record.”

“That she did,” he replied. “Remember when I used to ask her how in the hell she knew I needed this or needed that?”

“Yeah. She’d tell you, ’A wife’s intuition. I just knew.”

“She always did,” he added.

The unopened envelope sat there undisturbed, even after all of the Christmas decorations had been boxed away and brought down to the basement. His daughter flew back home after helping him tidy up and, he didn’t say it out loud to her when she was there, but he wondered if he'd put those decorations back up again, ever.

Just wouldn’t be the same, he concluded.

Life went on for him. After a year, at the proddings of his daughter, he ventured out again. He joined some community reading clubs and even subscribed to some ballroom dancing lessons. He related well and kindly with the women he met, but there was only one for him, his wife of 47 years, and he knew that she was waiting for him.

He had almost forgotten about her final gift to him.

Almost.

It was 2025 and as Christmas season began to arise on storefronts and become prominent on TV advertising, he felt the urge to return to the basement.

He wanted to decorate this year, for this was the Christmas he'd finally open her present. Now, what do I really need this year? he asked himself, remembering his late wife’s perfect record.

Like his wife before him, he passed away unceremoniously on this Christmas day, albeit three years later, in 2025.

When his daughter had flown in to sort things out after hearing the bad news, she happened upon the opened envelope that was, as described, "As much for me as it is for you." She realized her mother's wait was over, and she knew how to send him to her.

In the envelope was a pre-paid cremation coupon made out in his name.

“She did it again,” she said to herself. “Just the thing he needed. Her perfect record stands.” She smiled. “How’d she know?” she asked herself, then chuckled. “She just did. Intuition. She always did.”

Walk through a cemetery both in remembrance of the family, friends or even strangers who have gone before you and as a reminder that someday you will take your inevitable place with them, joining the ranks of the deceased.

Although the plot sizes may be uniform, there are various styles of grave markers. They range from minimalist, a rectangular piece of granite situated in such a way that the groundskeeper can pass over it with a lawn mower, to towering obelisks, drawing your attention towards the sky.

Some have been there so long that the exterior is weathered. The elements have compromised the inscription, making it difficult to read. Others are newer with the engraving still defined. Passing your hand over it, your fingers can differentiate each individual letter. You’ll see religious symbols glorifying a god or markings identifying a service to America. A few have squat, wrought iron fences along the perimeter, even though there’s no chance any neighboring souls will ever physically encroach on this plot of land.

Natural bouquets in store-bought vases or decorations are left by the tombstones. Over time, the ornaments become bleached by the sun. The fresh-cut flowers will wilt and decompose, like an analogy of the person they were for. Small tokens with hidden meanings are left behind as loved ones attempt to keep their family members connected to the physical world.

The four things all the markers have in common are a name, the date of birth, the date of death and a space (or hyphen) between the dates. Celebrating when a person was born and remembering when they died are important bookmarks. But the truly impactful area is the overlooked space separating the DOB and DOD. That unassuming blank area symbolizes the person’s life. Everything done and all the lives touched are hidden behind that space. The threads of experiences woven together to create the tapestry of the deceased’s life are summarized by a non-descript emptiness separating two specific dates.

Whoever knew that person is part of that barren surface. But who’s still alive that can recall the stories it holds? As acquaintances and generations fade away, memories will no longer be relived and shared with those who never knew this person. What impactful events in that person’s life are destined to be erased with time’s passage? What regrets were had? What opportunities were missed or plans never executed that could have added importance to that void? The smallest area on the tombstone represents the entirety of someone’s life. It will always occupy the same part on the marker but never outwardly reveal the complex story of the person it is a testimony to.

Cemeteries remind me not to substitute complacency for comfort. I strive to excel in my Comfort Zone. But I am aware my Comfort Zone is dynamic because it has and will continue changing over the years according to my needs, experiences or maturity. Not reexamining then redefining my Comfort Zone means it will become a Complacent Zone. Life is static in the Complacent Zone. Accepting complacency as the norm eliminates risk which increases the chance that I won’t even realize I’m slowly being smothered. I’ll end up neck deep, wallowing in Complacent Zone quicksand with no desire to free myself.

My plan is to be dynamic so that when I’m exiting this wild and precious life, I’ll be at peace knowing the gap on my tombstone between birth and death is not a wasted space.

I Like the Cut of Your Jib

December 23, 2024

Monica.

Her’s was a name I would always remember.

Ironically, it was that singular name I want to forget.

I met Monica just after college. I was young and foolish. She was just young. She had a way about her as if she inherited all of her life’s lessons from birth, instead of through time. Her face said 23, but her demeanor said 63. She knew what she wanted out of life and whose life would have to be sacrificed to get it.

She had that type of demeanor.

I paid for our first date. I paid for our first apartment. I paid for her car, her clothes, her jewels.

The cash was serious. My time spent was even more serious. I fell for her in every way. She “checked all of the boxes” I could list in what I wanted in a future wife.

On the day of our wedding, she checked the “I do” box.

That night, she checked the “mother to be” box.

Our children (1 girl and 1 boy) lived idyllic lives. I pampered them with whatever they wanted, just like their mother. It didn’t take long for both to realize the dynamic of our family life. It only took a few more seconds for me to realize that they realized only the financial aspect of this dynamic. As long as I could pay the bills, I had the family everyone wanted.

Then, Monica met someone who wanted her more than I.

It didn’t take her long to understand that balance ledgers with 9 zeros easily triumph over those with 7 zeros.

She filed for divorce in Dubai.

She took the kids with her to Stockholm.

I received a messenger (also a lawyer) who processed me through a series of international rules and regulations concerning how few rights I actually held in my case.

I now had 0 zeros in my ledger.

But, I had nothing left to lose.

I will be arraigned in the morning on a variety of weapons charges, crossing state lines, murder in the first degree, and kidnapping.

At least I got to see my children for their (respective) 8th and 7th birthdays. We ate Happy Meals for the first (and last time). What I saved in food, I spent in shotgun shells.

One of the best days of my life.

All for under $40.

Monica.

Her’s was a name I would always remember.

Mine was the last thing she ever remembered.

The night is dark and thick and it falls heavy, hot, and suffocating over the land.

An grass is tall and it is sharp and it droops slightly as it lines the ditch of the dusty, worn road. The dusty road that if you look down it will look you in the eyes and say Yes. I'm here. Come to me.

The moon hangs high in the sky but all its light appears faded. It's just a circle of white ringed by gray as the night is just an all-expansive starless sky of black. The only light there is shines from the piercing rays of a gas station light far off in the distance, too far to illuminate anything. The night is unnatural. The night is eerie. The night is heavy.

This is the place where nature and the city clashes. Nature is overpowered. Of course. By the city's snaking fingers that press into everything. The tired-terror-rage-hurt in the eyes of the men and the hopeless desolate love in the mouths of the women. And the sorrow snd silence in the people who are not either. The way the grass dies in the polluted dust of the roadside. But there is living grass still. There is kindness and cleverness in the eyes of the men. Anger and confidence in mouths of the women. Secrets, hope, and wisdom in the people who are not either. And there is the way the night falls like a disguise, like a cloak. Like a blanket.

The crickets chirp and buzz, silently cheering me on.

I am a shadow of a girl. I am a girl lost in the shadows. Trailing behind another girl who always, always, always blocks all the light. I am the silent one. The unseen one. I am the one who is always nothing and no one.

But not anymore. The air is hot and humid and yet it feels cool around my body. Around my face, around my arms, around the soles of my bare feet.

The dew on the grass brushes against my ankles.

Miri kissed me three days ago. Before I set out onto this journey with the blocker of my light. She told me to be brave. Be confident. Be brutal. And I'm not brave. I'm broken. But when Miri kisses me hope runs down like molten gold over the broken, jagged edges of my heart. Pulls them together.

So for her I am brave. For us both.

The other girl is walking in front of me. She always is. She is walking slowly. Even her steps are haughty. And I don't quite know how she manages that. As always, my steps are quiet.

I walk faster though. Just a tiny, immeasurable bit faster than her. The air around me grows immeasurably colder. The path is full of rocks and broken bits of concrete from when the road was functional. It digs into my bare feet. She in her thick-soled shoes cannot feel it.

Seven days ago Miri and I were hiding in the alley sharing breathless open-mouthed kisses, hands brushing up under each other's shirts. She whispered my name over and over again.

Ayali. Ayali. Ayali. Ayali. Ayali I love you.

And she told me she sabotaged the engine of the car. The world smelled faintly of exhaust and heat as it always did and for the first time in my life I cried. And she moved to quickly wipe the tears from my face with her gentle hands so that I would not be caught.

The night is still. The world is tensed with anticipation. Waiting.

The girl gets out her cellphone, and dials the number of her father.

"Hello, daddy? Yes the car broke down. We're. We're on our way to the gas station now. But gee whiz cheese and crackers, the road is so long and it's so hot out here. I need a fan or an air conditioner of something. We don't have any of that here now do we? Christ on a bicycle I'm too delicate and sensitive for this."

I wait until she finishes her phone call. None of this will work if she's still on the phone with her father.

The moonlight softly illuminates the top of her hair. Her phone's screen shines pale against the skin of her cheek. She looks eerie. Frightening. Though I don't remember ever not being frightened of her. It's good that I know exactly where she is. It's good that I know exactly what she is.

One year ago Miri and I were sitting on our knees, facing each other, on the floor of the garage. Her eyes sparkled golden in the midsummer sunset light. Her dark hair frizzed in the humidity. She was chanting softly. Lost in a meditative trance. Lost in my dark eyes. I was lost in hers. And the words I chanted laced and wove through the words she chanted to create a beautiful whispering harmony. Beneath us the runes glowed. They were made of feathers from the seagulls and crows that soared in the sky, arranged into the shapes of thin loops forming a circle. The birds soared and squawked and screamed free in that endless blue and they took care of us. We continued chanting as the sun's rays dipped below the horizon. We took the stolen glass jar that we had previously filled with rainwater. And we held it up against the horizon so that it caught the last of the sun's rays. We soaked all the feathers inside the water. As the twilight bathed everything blue we continued chanting, both holding the jar of feathers in both of our hands.

And as the light finally faded we solemnly took twelve steps to the sickly, dying tree holding on desperately to the crumbling ground beside the garage. It was fading, unlike the bright domesticated flowering plants carefully maintained in the front entrance of the house. And we poured out the contents of the jar over its roots.

Brother Tree. You who bend and bow to the city and its rulers as we do. Brother tree. You who hold the life force of Mother Earth as we do. Brother Tree. Aid us in our quest to restore what has been lost and to build what has been broken. Aid us in our quest to bring back life and hope into the hearts of the people.

And now I watch as the light on her cheek flickers into nothing. She puts her phone in her purse and scans the horizon. I'm stalking even closer to her. And as quick as a striking stake my arms twist around her throat. She chokes out a scream. I squeeze as hard as I can but she kicks and claws and writhes and sends us both tumbling to the ground. She gains the upper hand for a moment. Lays her upper body on top of mine and pins my arms to my side. But I bite her cheek hard enough to draw blood. And she screams and jerks away. I spring up and then we are on each other. Biting and grabbing and kicking and pushing in the dirt. Until finally I am straddling over her, with both my hands around her throat. A vice grip fuelled by the unending, incomprehensible pain and rage and desolation and suffocation that has been my life thus far.

I smile the most deranged, glorious smile as I feel her breathing slow, as I see her struggling get weaker and weaker as her body becomes limp. She goes still and silent under me, eyes wide open and completely spaced out. I hold her down for a few minutes, just to be sure it worked.

Four days ago a great storm swept through the lands. It brought with it pouring, torrential rain that was freezing cold, colder than any ice. Just as Miri and I had summoned. As everyone huddled inside the house, Miri and I placed the jar on the ground by the tree. The tree was stronger now. It stood up taller. It's leaves didn't droop. It had a healthy sheen. Rain hit the leaves, and soaked in the life force and essence of the tree. As the world stood in that untameable standstill, water rolled down the leaves, different droplets coalescing together into thick, cold drops. And as the storm raged on and on and on the jar filled with tree-soaked rainwater.

Miri and I got a small reprieve. Could claim that we were trapped in the garage due to the rain. We lay on our straw mat, with wet hair, and kissed. She straddled her body on top of me and then bent down low to kiss me. I lightly dug my fingers into her waist. Brushed them up and down her thighs. She smelled like heat and sweat and dawn and the ocean mist.

Everything around me is dark. Pitch black like a page with ink spilled all over it. Like all the world is nothing. Nothing but a thick, almost tangible black. The road is abandoned. Nobody can see us. Still I carry the girl's limp, cold body towards the ditch, far from the road. Far from bright headlights. In case anyone speeds by. I keep walking until I can see the familiar glow of moonlight shining on water.

Thank you for showing me the way, Brother Moon, I whisper. I lay her body down beside the water. Then, I step into the water to see how deep it is. It's a really dirty pond full of fish waste and mud but to a large extent water is water. I get the small vial full of the tree water I have hidden away in my underclothes.

Four days ago Miri and I kneeled on either side of the water jar, in the dead of night. Softly chanting chanting and chanting and chanting until the water flowed blue like the horizon. We bottled a bit of it in a stolen laboratory microfuge tube, given to us by the boys across the alley who got it from someone else. And we slept curled around each other as we've done for years.

I bring the little tube up to the light of the moon.

"Brother Moon. Father Sky. Mother Earth. Sister Water. Please may I be granted the shape of the one who held the power. May I be granted the shape of the one who held the keys. So that I too may hold the keys and so that I too may hold the power. Transfigure my face and my throat and my body until the day when my people can be truly free. So that I might walk through the world unburdened and fool the the ones in the high into letting my people go. Brother Moon. Father Sky. Sibling Fire. Mother Earth. Sister Water. Brother Tree. Siblings Stars. Sibling rain. Sister Sun. All the forces of the world. Twist my face into a falsehood so that I may bring the reign of truth into the time."

I bring the vial up to the sky then I pour the water over my hair and forehead.

The world seems to still around me. The wind starts blowing, strong and cool and quick over my face and through my hair. I feel as if I am on fire, but it isn't painful. It's invigorating. Energizing. Finally I look up. I am wearing shoes. I have on her soft clothes. My hair is in the long, intricate braids she wore. My skin is soft and smooth like hers. I look into the bag that I am now holding. I pull out the phone and take a picture of myself.

Yes. I have her body. I look just like her. And I snap a picture of her. She has my body. Good. I'll miss my body but I know I will have it back once the work is done. But now I will leave the girl to rot and be picked at by the fishes.

Two years ago Miri came into my life. She was thirteen years old. Her parents were dead. Her baby had been taken from her. And she was utterly broken. I pieced her back together in the far too short moments between dusk and nighttime and between dawn and morning. She pieced me together in the fleeting moments we stole.

I briskly walk to the gas station, testing out my voice. Sure, I sound like her. But I don't quite speak like her yet. So I have to practice. I call her father, my voice wavering. I pretend that Ayali (me) attacked me (her) but "I" managed to fight "her" off.

In about an hour I get to the gas station and I wait inside until he picks me up.

Two years ago I had been alone for nine years and my life was infinitely worse than death. And then Miri told me that I was beautiful, wonderful, amazing. I was everything that was good in the universe and I was deeply beloved by more people than I could count.

And so I sleep for the first time in a large, soft bed. And I sneak Miri in there too. Claim that I'm oh so tired from my ordeal and I couldn't possibly sleep alone and I need her to stay up and stand watch. We hide under the covers of the bed and kiss each other senseless.

Later we to go live in a separate apartment away from prying eyes. And we create a space where there are no power imbalances. And we plan.

I chat with the girl's uncle, who thinks I am her. He's very high up in the military. I manage to guile him into giving me the locations and entry codes for all the armouries.

Six months later all out war breaks out. It's winter. It's cold. It's nighttime. The winter solstice actually. An auspicious time. The moon hangs bright and still, tinted the slightest bit blue. We march all together. Sharing in each other's heat. Sharing in each other's anger. Sharing in each other's strength. More people than I ever knew existed. We storm the armoires by the thousands. We easily take out the guards. Though they shoot at us. Though our comrades fall. There are simply too many people to shoot and we fall upon them and beat them to death with our bare hands while others flow into the doors of the weapons vaults. It's the most exhilarating night of my life. I had never even seen that many people all right there at once before.

And we take the weapons and we run with them. Sure, we don't know how to use them. At first. But those of us who had been spying on the military - which is many of us - soon teach the others. And then it's all stops pulled out. We know that if this war drags on and on we will starve. Normally this would be more than enough to stop us from even pursuing it. But we outnumber them two to one. We have most of the weapons. The odds are in our favour and the chips are on our side. We know that this is the one chance to get free. And freedom is worth dying for. If it means our children will live. We can win this. And we do win. Easily. It's a matter of weeks.

People did die though. People died in droves. And it was terrible. It was bloody. It was ugly. It was gruesome. It was painful. For them and for all the ones they left behind. It was something that shouldn't've happened. But they died for the new generations. For the future. And for the Earth and Sky and all Their Children.

Two years later I'm back in my proper body. I'm surrounded by my community. I'm married to Miri, and with my four-year-old stepchild Novalee. She's so small. And she's back with us. Reunited with her mother at the same age in which I was separated from mine. And she can be a child. The air is clearer than it ever has been. The water more flowing. The ground is cleaner. There are more plants than before. The moon shines brightly and so do the stars. And people have peace in their eyes. Have joy.

I was burning the midnight oil in my office, working a case that was so cold it would’ve given a lesser gumshoe frostbite. No lights. I like it dark as ink because it helps me think.

I go back to square one. “Kid” Hooper knocks over a bank twenty-two years ago. They find his body a year later, but no trace of the fifty-two grand he stole. Now his widow hires me to find the loot (she says she’ll give me a taste of the game) or prove her husband innocent.

I hear footsteps nearby. I shine my flashlight at the door and see a note on the floor. It says, “Time Capsule, Nine tomorrow morning. Ford High School garden.” The other side of the note says, “Be there. Could be worth fifty G’s.”

Tomorrow arrives. “The class of 1934 left instructions to open this time capsule now, in 1956,” a school principal tells a couple hundred students and a dozen adults, including me.

He opens the lid of a dirty metal container and the stench overwhelms. The crowd recoils, the principal drops the box, and I dive and get my mitts on it. But another hand is on mine.

Kooky King Kong kapellmeister

just jabbering gibberish (A - K)

Again, another awkward ambitious

arduous attempt at alphabetically

arranging atrociously ambiguously

absolutely asinine avoidable alliteration.

Because...? Basically bonafide belching,

bobbing, bumbling, bohemian beastie boy,

bereft bummer, bleeds blasé blues, begetting

bloviated boilerplate bildungsroman,

boasting bougainvillea background.

Civil, clever clover chomping, cheap

chipper cool cutthroat clueless clodhopper,

chafed centenary, codifies communication

cryptically, challenging capable, certifiably

cheerful college coed.

Divine dapper daredevil, deft, destitute,

doddering, dorky dude, dummkopf Dagwood

descendent, dagnabbit, demands daring

dedicated doodling, dubious, dynamite,

deaf dwarf, diehard doppelganger, Doctor

Demento double, declaring depraved

daffy dis(pense)able dufus Donald Duck

derailed democracy devastatingly defunct.

Eccentric, edified English exile,

effervescent, elementary, echinoderm

eating egghead, Earthling, excretes,

etches, ejaculates, effortless exceptional

emphatic effluvium enraging eminent,

eschatologically entranced, elongated

elasmobranchii, emerald eyed Ebenezer,

effectively experiments, emulates epochal

eczema epidemic, elevating, escalating,

exaggerating enmity, enduring exhausting

emphysema.

Freed fentanyl fueled, fickle figurative

flippant fiddler, fiendishly filmy, fishy,

fluke, flamboyantly frivolous, fictitious,

felonious, fallacious, fabulously fatalistic,

flabbergasted, fettered, flustered, facile,

faceless, feckless, financially forked,

foregone, forlorn futile fulsome, freckled

feverish, foo fighting, faulty, freezing,

fleeting famously failing forecaster, flubs

"FAKE" fundamental fibber fiat, fabricating

fiery fissile fractured fios faculties.

Gamesomeness goads gawky, gingerly,

goofily graceful, grandiloquent gent, gallant,

genteel, geico, guppy gecko, gabbling gaffes,

gagging, gamboling, gestating, gesticulating,

garlic, gnashing, gobbling, gyrating,

gruesomely grinning, grappling, gnomadic

giggly, grubby, gastrointestinally grumpy

gewgaw gazing gesticulating guy,

geographically generically germane,

gungho, grave gremlin, grumbling, guiding,

guaranteeing, guerilla gripped gatling guns

ginning gumpshun.

Hello! Herewith halfway harmless hazmat,

haphazard haggard, hectored, hastily,

hurriedly, harriedly hammered, handsomely

hackneyed, heathen, hellbent hillbilly, hirsute,

hidden hippie, huffy humanoid, hexed, heady,

Hellenistic, holistic, hermetic, hedonistic

heterosexual Homo sapiens historical heirloom,

homeless, hopeful, holy, hee haw heretical hobo.

Indefatigable, iconographic, iconic, idealistic,

idyllic, inimitable, idiosyncratic, ineffable,

irreverently issuing idiotic, indifferent, inert,

ineffectual, ingeniously iniquitous, immaterial,

insignificant, indubitable, inexplicable, ignoble

itches, ineffectually illustriously illuminating

immovable infused ichthyosaurus implanted

inside igneous intrusions immensely

imperturbable improbable.

Jovial jabbering jinxed January jokester

just jimmying jabberwocky

justifying jangling jarring juvenile jibberish

jubilantly jousting jittering

jazzy jawbreaking jumble

justifying, jostling, Jesus;

junior jowly janissary joyful Jekyll

joined jumbo Jewess jolly Jane;

jammed jello junket jiggled

jeopardized jingled jugs.

Kooky knucklehead klutz

knowingly kneaded, kicked, killed

knobby kneed kleptomanic.

"Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven." Matthew 19:14

Is Christmas only for children? If you think so, you have lost some important hard-wiring in your brain. You're less human.

Our minds are a gestalt: beyond the autonomic drive to breathe and rhythmic impulses keeping our hearts beating, we're also born with innocence.

But innocence is not a lack of something.

Innocence isn't merely a blank slate—ignorance of the world. It is not the stupidity that proclaims that "sucker born every minute." Thereon are instruction sets written in invisible ink; we all come into the world hard-wired with that innocence.

Innocence has room for life's inscriptions, written in life's calligraphy, in many hues of ink. Sometimes, in colors of pain. But how easily our original instruction sets are overwritten!

Have you ever tried explaining to a child why some people hate others? Even people they don't know? Or why some people do unspeakable things to others, as if any reason could justify it? Especially societally?

Why can't a child understand why one religion sees hurting members of another as a good thing? Something that pleases God? Or hurting members of other nations; or skin? Would a child see homosexuality as bad? What if it were explained as love between two people?

When the children in Matthew swarmed Jesus and bugged his disciples, they shooed them away, like irritating gnats. Jesus rebuked them for slighting those closest to the God of the love he was teaching.

A child comes into the world as pure love.

Watch children's reactions to nonsensical hate. Or the Nightly News. They don't fail to understand because they're ignorant of the real world; or stupid. No, they fail because it contradicts the hard wiring we're born with. Calligraphy fails. Their slates become cluttered with graffiti, spray-painted in tears.

And blood.

If you've ever defended to a child any reason justifying hate and ill will—successfully—then perhaps you're the problem. How far have you distanced yourself from the loving God in whose presence you were born? (It's all downhill from there.)

This Christmas, suspend disbelief and join the innocence of childhood. Even if Jesus means nothing to you, innocence is a Godly thing and yours to miss.

“’I’m going to walk to the bridge. If at least one person smiles at me on the way, I will not jump.”

From time to time, I am reminded of this anecdote of a man who jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge. I read it somewhere on the internet, and it stuck with me.

A warm smile. A simple greeting. They do really have the power to save lives - at least in some cases.

Three days before it all started, I was hospitalized because I cut my wrist in an attempt to kill myself.

I survived, thanks to the fact that my family found me early enough.

As I lay on the hospital bed, I wished someone would hold my hand. Of course, no one did, so I held my own hand. My hand which was now scarred, probably for life.

My suicide attempt was impulsive, though the seed of my suicidal ideation was sown long ago.

Lying on the bed, I wondered. If someone smiled at me or greeted me or say something simple yet warm to me that day, I might really not have the urge to disappear. I might have wanted to hold on for longer, at least until the impact of that smile faded.

It’s pathetic that I had no one to smile at me. My parents might love me, but as they were chronically exhausted from work, they seldom smiled. When was the last time they smiled at me, again? See, I couldn’t even remember.

I had no one at school who would smile at me, either.

I had transferred schools last year and I, being the socially awkward teen I was, couldn’t make friends even after a whole year had passed. Not that I had close friends in my previous school, either…

Today, I have to go to school. Again. Ugh. Life is tiring. Humans are even more tiring. I hate humans. I hate my life. I hate myself. Why does everything have to be so damn tiring?

As I drag my heavy self to the classroom, something splendid happens.

Someone greets me.

My first reflex is to look around to see if there's someone around. My brain doesn’t register that the greeting is, in fact, intended for me.

As I turn to the one who greeted me, he waves and smiles.

Something happens inside me. I feel weird. It’s been so long since I last felt this that I actually forgot that this feeling existed.

I feel warm inside.

Then I remember - that I should greet him back.

I wave back and smile awkwardly. Inside, I am dying of embarrassment. This is the first time in a long while since someone greeted me, and I am so useless that I can't even properly greet him back. Another part of me is somewhat overwhelmed with happiness.

Greeting someone means you go out of your way to acknowledge their existence. It means that you noticed them among so many people and cared enough to let them know that. However, most people probably don't bother to give it much thought. They take it for granted as they are used to being greeted by at least one person everyday.

However, for me, even that much feels like a luxury since I am pretty much invisible.

The feeling caused by that simple gesture of him stayed with me for the rest of the day, giving me the energy to go through the rest of the day. Even when I went to bed at night, his smile haunted me.

That someone was you.

I knew you from before. We were in the same classroom last year. You had a dazzling presence and interesting personality. My classmates were dying to get to know you; however, you were reserved and only ever talked to your seatmate.

Why would someone like you acknowledge my presence all on a sudden?

That doesn’t matter now, what matters is what happened.

Next day, I found a letter on my desk. It was written on a light green coloured paper.

At first, I wasn’t sure if the letter was meant for me. Sure, it was on my desk, but the question was who would bother to write me a letter? A fairly long letter, at that.

But it turned out that letter was indeed meant for me.

My heart beat with excitement as I held the letter. The scent of the coloured paper mixed with a faint scent of perfume. The texture of the paper. The words scribbled on the paper with beautiful handwriting. I took every little detail inside me and let them get curved in my memory.

It was late Autumn. Since it had been raining for the last few days, the wind was chilly. It made me shiver a little.

On a day like that, I got a letter from a strange classmate.

I read the letter over and over again, taking in each and every word. They were simple words, but to me they were very special.

You said you had been observing me from the day you transferred. In your eyes, I looked interesting, someone you would like to be friends with. You mentioned us being in the same classroom last year but in different classroom this year, which confirmed your identity. You said you could express yourself better when you wrote, that's why you wanted us to be penpals. That part made me feel relieved because I was clumsy with my words too. I never tried writing letters, though, so I didn’t know if I was good at writing.

During History class, I tore a page from my notebook and wrote you a reply. It was somewhat messy compared to your letter which was neat and clean, but whatever.

Truth be told, I was interested in you too.

You seemed to be living in a different world than me and the rest of my classmates. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason why, but you gave off a different vibe. You reserved nature added even more to that vibe. It made you somewhat unapproachable. But the more unapproachable you seemed, the more you seemed interesting.

I couldn’t think of a reason why someone like you chose someone like me as a penpal. I lived a boring life. I had no experience worth sharing with others, had no hobbies other than listening to music, my world was limited to four walls - either of school or of home.

But you chose me to be your friend. The mere thought of it filled my heart up. I felt like I was dreaming.

That was the first time someone reached out to me.

Then I remembered the way you smiled at me. A smile that felt so natural, so warm. Would I meet you today too? Would you smile at me the same way?

Before I knew it, I was looking forward to seeing you when classes were over.

And there you were, chatting with a classmate. I didn’t know whether I should interrupt you, but then again, I had to hand you the letter.

I took a deep breath.

“Excuse me.”

You looked at me. “Oh, hi.” you waved with a slight smile on your face.

“I wrote you a reply,” I reached out my hand with the folded white paper at you.

“Wow, you're so fast,” the smile broadened as you took the letter from me.

“See you tomorrow.” I said.

“See you,” the smile didn’t fade until the end.

As I walked, I imagined your acquaintance asking you, “Who is he? What's with the letter? Are you two close?”

I didn’t know how you answered them. I didn’t want to know. I cherished that warm feeling inside me that was caused by you.

I found something to look forward to.

Your letters.

When I spotted the folded coloured piece of paper sitting on my desk, my heart started beating fast. No matter the contents, it was the act of getting letters that excited me.

You talked about various topics. From recommending new songs to explaining the newest scientific invention that I didn’t have a clue about, from the latest book you read to philosophy and literature - you talked about everything. Turned out we were fans of the same rock band - ONE OK ROCK. When you told me that, I internally squealed. You said we should go to their concert together someday. Even though I knew it was a distant daydream, I agreed. It was the first time someone ever wanted to go somewhere together with me, after all.

You loved writing letters. To you, it was like journalling, unburdening yourself at the end of the day. But unlike regular journalling where people keep the record for themselves to reminisce later, you wanted to share your day with someone else. For some reason, I seemed to be the perfect person for that. I didn’t know you in person and I didn’t expect you to be a certain way, maybe that was why.

At first, it wasn’t easy for me to write replies. As I mentioned before, my life was mundane. There was nothing worth mentioning. But nevertheless, I wanted to fill up the page. So I started writing whatever came to my mind. The new song that I listened to, random people who caught my eyes while I was spying on their windows unbeknownst to them…as I let the words flow, I started talking about myself. My exhaustion with human beings including myself. My loneliness. How I missed my parents despite living together. How I sometimes wished to have a friend with whom I can do everything together, from having lunch together to celebrating birthdays together to walking around the city hand in hand. “But then,” I added, “I get why anyone wouldn’t want to be friends with me. I am such a boring person, I wouldn’t be friends with myself either…”

“Demeaning yourself seems like your second nature. Everytime you say something like this, it hurts me.

However, this time, you not only demeaned yourself, you disrespected me too. You say no one would want to be friends with you… What am I? A cockroach? Huh? Fine, then…I was planning on accompanying you from now on, but seeing how you don’t count me as a person, I shouldn’t do that…It’ll be a waste anyway.

P. S. Go listen to What Makes You Beautiful by One Direction.”

I listened. I laughed and cried at the same time. And I made sure to write you a long letter filled with my sincere apology. I promised I wouldn’t say something like that anymore.

My parents loved me. But I forgot about that, even after seeing how devastated they were after my attempt at self-destruction. Now I had one more person who cherished me. If I said I was worthless, in a way it was insulting for them too. To them, I was far from worthless.

That day, after classes were over, you were waiting for me in front of my classroom.

“Come over to my house today. I am having a Halloween party.”

Your surprise invitation caught me off guard.

“Call your parents from the teacher's office and tell them you're not going home tonight.”

“Eh?” I was even more surprised.

“Let's go,” you dragged me by hand and didn’t let go until we arrived at the office. My parents were as surprised as I was at this sudden sleepover invitation, so you had to do a little convincing to earn their approval.

“I brought chocolates. And costumes. And scary movies, too,” you said as you settled on the bed.

“What is the costume that you are wearing?”

“It’s Jack Skellington from Nightmare Before Christmas… Wait,” You looked up to me, through the mask so I couldn’t see your expression, “Don't tell me you didn’t watch Nightmare Before Christmas?”

“I didn’t.”

You grabbed your head. “Oh man, how could you not watch a classic like that? We gotta fix

this ASAP.” As you removed your mask, your long, messy hair was spread all over your face. You combed them with your finger to straighten them and brought your laptop out from your bag. Then you handed me the costume that you bought for me, “Get changed into this while I download the movie.”

“What is this?”

“A Pumpkin.”

I burst into laughter.

I really enjoyed the movie, but what I enjoyed even more was the experience of watching movie with a friend for the first time. When the ‘This Is Halloween’ song was being played, you sang along. You sang really well.

After the movie was finished, we watched another horror movie. Horror wasn’t my favourite genre and I got jumpscared quite a few times, making you laugh. Once it was over, we lay side by side on your double-bed.

“That was fun…Wasn’t it?” You said.

“It indeed was.”

“Today was my birthday.”

“What? You are telling me that now? Had I known beforehand, I would’ve prepared some gifts…”

“It’s one of the things I wanted to do before I die, you know, celebrating my birthday with a friend. Thank you, I had a lot of fun today…” with that, you drifted off to sleep.

“You sleep like me,” I said looking at you, who was sleeping with your hands clasping one another, “You feel that lonely, huh.”

You didn’t respond.

I took your hands and untangled the fingers, then I intertwined your fingers with mine. I pressed my hand onto yours as an attempt to warm your hands that were colder than mine.

“When I was young,” I said in a voice a little louder than a whisper, “My mom used to hold my hand until I fell asleep. That became a bad habit, seeing even now I long for someone's hand when I fall asleep. Did your mom do that to you too?”

I knew you wouldn’t respond, I kept talking nevertheless.

“When I was at hospital that time, narrowly surviving a suicide attempt, I wished someone would hold my hand like this. I slept every night holding onto my own hand. Seeing you like this reminds me so much of those days. I don’t want you to sleep like that, not when you have another hand you can hold onto.”

That night, you were probably pretending to sleep. You did that so that I could talk. You knew that I couldn’t open up while looking into your eyes, so you helped me out. Heck, I probably wouldn’t be able to hold your hand had you not been asleep. I would be embarrassed.

Later, you told me that you actually knew about my suicide attempt all along. That day, you were on your way out when they brought me in, blood-soaked and unconscious. You saw that and shuddered. I didn’t even get the chance to get to know you, you thought. You had always wanted to befriend me but you held back. You had your reasons to do so which I found out later.

That explained why you smiled like that when we bumped into each other in the corridor. You were relieved to see me alive and well. That also explained why you got angry with me when I demeaned myself.

The next year, you gave me a surprise visit on my birthday. You hinted at it several times, like casually asking my address and asking if my parents were strict. I was dense and I didn’t understand it was all part of your plan.

So when on that day my doorbell rang, I was utterly surprised to see you on the other side. You pulled me into a hug while I was still processing the shock.

You brought homemade cake that you made with your mother's help. Your mom also packed sandwiches. We devoured them together. Before that day, I didn’t know that food tasted tastier when shared with a friend. You also brought a customized t-shirt, I was elated when I saw it and I wore it right away.

My parents weren't home, so we played OOR songs in full volume and screamed along until our throat hurt and voice broke.

“Let's live like we're immortal

Maybe just for tonight

We'll think about tomorrow when the sun comes up

'Cause by this time tomorrow

We'll be talking 'bout tonight

Keep doing what we want, we want, we want

No more wasted nights…”

With our voices gone, we fell on the bed, staring at the celling in silence until sleep seized us.

It takes very little to initiate a friendship.

Maybe one day you overheard someone talking about their favourite book and that happened to be your favourite book too. You went up to them and said “Oh you like that too?” and they said “You too?” and the two of you start chatting like old buddies, talking about the characters and plots and then the conversation shifts to “What other book do you like?” and another deep discussion began. Before you parted ways, you two had become buddies already.

Or maybe one day you happened to see a keychain charm of your favourite character hanging from someone's bag and you were dying to know them since then. Then one day, you actually mustered up the courage and started up a conversation. Then in the span of a month or so, you two are inseparable.

While you gather up the courage to approach, maybe you observe that person in the meantime and start noticing little things about them. Their little habits, how they talk to their friends, how they doze off during class and startle awake…Stuff like that.

I thought only friendless loners would invest their time in a single person like that. A loner like me, for example.

However, you proved me wrong.

You kept an eye on me ever since you caught me listening to Wasted Nights. Anyone would wonder why you just didn’t come up and initiate a conversation, but I understood you. At least I thought I would. Because if it was me, I'd act the same way.

Back then, I didn’t know there was more to it than just you being socially awkward.

You were at a tug-of-war.

Part of you wanted to make friends.

Another part of you didn’t want to get attached to any more people, knowing how you would break their heart. Just like how children who transfer school a lot give up on befriending new people or only make surface-level friendships.

I thought you were such a dummy.

Anyone can die anytime. Even being alive doesn’t guarantee lifelong relationships. Does that mean you'd cut off everyone and live in a hole forever?

However, after seeing you falling apart right in front of me, I finally understood why you made that decision. If I were in your shoes, I'd have done the same…Probably.

Outside, it was spring. The air was heavy with the scent of mango blossoms, the roadsides were colourful with bloomed flowers.

But in that little room of yours, you were withering. Spring didn’t reach you, like that one tree in the selfish giant's garden.

You, a child born in Autumn, turned into the epitome of winter.

That winter that consumed your body was consuming my mind. You were falling apart physically while I was falling apart mentally.

In one of your favourite books No One Writes Back, there was a quote. “Life is bearable when you have someone to write to.” Maybe that was the reason why we kept writing to each other. Your letters gave me a reason to go on, they gave me something to look forward to.

To think I would never see that smile of yours again…the mere thought of it makes me shudder.

Like that protagonist of your another favourite book, The Book Thief, I fell in love with words. And that was all thanks to you.

You coloured my life with colours I didn’t know. I coloured your life with my own colours. That was all we did - adding colours to each other's lives.

That day, your smile and that overused greeting that saved me.

Your letters saved me.

See, it really is that simple to save a life.

If only saving your life was that simple…

No, even if it wasn’t simple, even if it was complicated beyond my understanding, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

If only…

Did you know? That day, I actually grabbed the door handle to open it and go inside. But at the last moment, I stopped.

Looking at you through the glass door, I was reminded of a series of painful memories.

My maternal grandparents used to live with us. My grandfather was chronically ill and taking care of him drove my grandmother borderline insane. My grandparents loved me very much, especially grandpa, mind you.

When one day grandpa's illness took a bad turn, I, and everyone else in our family desperately hoped for him to survive. I remember wandering around the house like a lonely orphan as everyone was busy with my grandpa. Then one day, gathering all of the willpower I could manage, I went to see him. He was barely conscious, but I think he recognized me.

After enduring this for a week, he died. They said he died peacefully. I was in the middle of wearing clothes after getting out of the shower when I heard my grandmother's hysteric crying. To this day, I am reminded of that memory when I wear clothes after a shower. Weird, right?

I refused when they asked me to see his face one last time. I didn’t want to remember his dead face. I didn’t want him to become a nightmare that'll come back to haunt me.

As I saw your face that I saw through the glass door, those memories came rushing in. I stepped back and sat down at one of the chairs in the waiting room. I couldn’t bring myself to go in.

I thought of messaging you, letting you know that I was there. Then I thought of something better and got up. I walked out of the hospital and went to a nearby stationery store. When I got back to the hospital, I had a bunch of post-it notes in my hand.

I racked my brain thinking of what I should write. In the end, you know what I ended up writing. “Hello. I'm here. But I don’t think I am ready to face you just yet. Can you forgive me?”

I handed the note to the first person whom I saw going into your room.

You replied on the other side, “Actually, I don’t think I am ready to see you either. Thank you so much for coming, anyway. You didn’t need to.”

I couldn’t think of what else I should write to you. I wasn’t good with words. I didn’t know what would lift you up in a state like that. I thought long and hard until I had the perfect idea.

You gifted me with your words, and I know that you love words more than anything else.

So there I was, filling pages up with words, writing the longest letter I have ever written to you. A letter containing our memories, a tribute to our precious friendship. What kind of expression will you make when you read it? I thought about that as I kept writing. Knowing you, you'll probably laugh and cry at the same time.

One day, when you were sleeping, I actually sneaked in your room. Your hand, lying motionless, resembled mine when I was hospitalized, except they were bruised from injection marks. I was afraid to touch them because they looked so painful. I couldn’t stand there for more than a minute. I walked out holding back my tears, and let myself break down once I sat down on the waiting room chair.

That was exactly the reason why I avoided facing you. If I cried in front of you, you wouldn’t feel good at all. Knowing you, you might even try to force a smile despite your condition. I would really hate myself if you did that.

Just like you knew my secret, I knew yours too.

I learnt from your parents that you were taken abroad for treatment three years ago, and you got better…only for that damn disease to come back again.

Usually, growing up, people look up to their parents or older siblings or any dependable adults around or celebrity figures. However, I was an only child. Instead of looking up to my parents, I aspired not to be like them. Living a life with no time for myself and my family was the last thing I wanted to do with my life.

Then you came into my life.

Despite being the same age as me, you somewhat felt like an older brother figure to me, one who could help me grow.

Before I realized, I was becoming more and and more like you, like a sponge absorbing seawater. I was no longer that dense boy oblivious to my surroundings.

You were afraid of being forgotten.

Your life was short. You only ever had surface-level friendships, not wanting to get attached to anyone. You were lonely and you wanted a connection other than that with your family. You wanted someone other than your family to remember you. You longed for friendship like any other teen would. You held onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, you might be able to have a normal life after all. That hope was what made you reach out to me.

Humans have this inherent tendency to leave their footprints on this world that lives on even after their death. That's why they produce offspring or make art. That's why they connect to other humans and pass their traits on. You, too, wanted to leave your footprints on this world, in your own way. With your letters and the friends that you made.

One day, I might fulfil the dreams you wanted to fulfil but couldn’t. I would walk in the corridor of the university you wanted to go to. Maybe I'd even save up enough money and attend an OOR concert, screaming along with our favourite songs. And I'd think, “You were supposed to be the one doing these, not me.”

Then maybe one day, I'd find what I really wanted to do with my life.

Every Christmas, my family comes together to attend my Aunt's evening mass in her home. Before an exquisite nativity scene of some ceramic with great detail. Where we sing softly of Jesus Christ and the fish in a river where a beautiful woman was brushing her hair, and at the end, we kiss the baby Jesus.

And when I'd been little at midnight I huddled around with my cousins-- the very best friends I still hold to my heart-- as we excitedly waited for midnight. As the time set by the adults that we could tear open our presents from a wide array of shiny wrapped packages under a grand tree.

It really looks like a toystore under my Aunt's tree. Since the whole family pitches in to trade gifts for cousins and aunts and sisters and their parents and the older kids to the younger kids.

What I want this Christmas is what I want every Christmas.

The warm light and steady, soothing hum of united prayer. Lilting singing voices as we celebrate Christ.

I want the burn of tamales on my tongue and the fill of posole and meatballs in my belly.

I don't even care all too much what I get under the tree. But I do especially love, when family members remember that I love wrapped ones the most since I get to tear into it.

I just want a singular night where our family is happy and talking, us kids holed up in a room with snacks talking about high school and college and romance, and the adults commandeering the downstairs with their gossip and "carcajeadas."