Window
Names
“Happy birthday,” he whispered, peering out of the wide window, now marked with finger and hand prints all over. The cool of winter finally died down, and the sweet scent of spring filled the air— at least, it did outside the house. Their little “home” smelled with the stench of his mother’s beer and cigarettes— two things he’s finally learning to let go of. Only two of the many things he’s learning to let go of. He was fifteen now, almost a junior. He was lucky he was still studying—his three part time jobs are finally paying off. Surprisingly, the past two, supposedly, painful years he had spent earning money to pay for his tuition fee were not at all a burden. He’d found himself a sanctuary— something to keep him alive for two more years, and the many years to come.
His little brother was recently set up for adoption by his mother last January. She said she couldn’t “take the pressure” and she “had enough troubles to deal with”. He could see, though, that she never really wanted to let go. Maybe, just maybe, she did care for them…even just a little bit.
It had been only a year and a half since he had first met her— if you would call a simple glance a meeting. He’d been looking out his window everyday, after school since then— hoping to catch her glance again.
He looked out toward their neighbor’s wide backyard, which was now filled with banners, balloons, chairs, tables, and people. The whole back yard was surrounded with flowers— daisies, poppies, tulips, rose bushes, and wild flowers. On the patio was a round table, filled with presents, all packaged with fancy gift wrapping. Around the left side of the yard was a long table, filled with assortments of food, and a layered cake in the center. Above it was one giant tarpaulin that said “Happy 15th Birthday, Charmaine”. The people who were scattered around the garden were all dressed in fancy clothes— girls wore poofy dresses with ribbons and flowers, women wore heels and cocktail dresses, boys wore buttoned-up shirts and shiny leather shoes, and men wore vests and fancy shoes that you could only find in stores like Polo and Burberry, and in countries like France in Italy.
And there she was. All dressed up in a blue, flowy, knee-length dress. Her hair was tied into a half-ponytail, and her long, straight hair was curled so lightly that it looked as if they were naturally curled. She wore high, strappy, silver heels, which made her look even taller than she already was. She carried herself with a certain pride, even when she bent down to kiss and greet her friends and relatives. She remained poised throughout the entire time— her back was slightly curved, her chin was up, and her shoulders were relaxed. Her beauty was stunning, and the way she carried herself set her apart from the many people who came to greet the her.
“..Charmaine…” He said, in a low, raspy voice— the sound coming from his chest, heaving down as he exhaled her name. He whispered so softly that his own ears could not hear, and he was left with the sensational taste it left in his mouth— and that was enough to keep him going.
He says her name again. And again. And again. With the same intonations, the same tone of voice, the same quiet whisper that he so desperately want her to hear.
He could taste her name in his mouth— like a bittersweet nectar that oozed out with the utmost passion. He felt its burn as it wrapped itself around his lungs, allowing him to only take a few breaths per beat of his heart; it felt warm on his throat, urging him to speak louder, but his voice was so silent it could barely be considered one and instead was an exhale of breath, as the whistle of his lungs filled the silent ringing in the air; it was cold on the tip of his tongue, freezing, even. So cold that he shivered as he spoke her name. So cold that he could actually feel the breeze of winter through his closed room in the middle of spring. So cold that it burned his tongue. But her name was so sweet, so sweet that it slurred off his lips like honey and he could not stop himself from speaking it.
Her name on the tip of his tongue sounded like music. Music like he had never heard before— a ringing sound of harmonies and melodies; bells and tympanis— all blending into each other in a steady symphony. He said her name like a bow strokes the strings of a violin as it plays a gentle tune of a musical piece (so soft, so tender), the resin left a trail of what was and then disappeared into thin air (he would never want anyone to know). He spoke her name like a finger slides through the keys of a grand piano, gliding through every key in a slow rhythm. Even as the melodies rise into great passion, the music remains quiet, silent. He spoke her name like a song, and it breathed music into his ears, and life into his corpse.
Her name brought sense to his being, and somehow, he felt closer to her than ever before.
His little brother was recently set up for adoption by his mother last January. She said she couldn’t “take the pressure” and she “had enough troubles to deal with”. He could see, though, that she never really wanted to let go. Maybe, just maybe, she did care for them…even just a little bit.
It had been only a year and a half since he had first met her— if you would call a simple glance a meeting. He’d been looking out his window everyday, after school since then— hoping to catch her glance again.
He looked out toward their neighbor’s wide backyard, which was now filled with banners, balloons, chairs, tables, and people. The whole back yard was surrounded with flowers— daisies, poppies, tulips, rose bushes, and wild flowers. On the patio was a round table, filled with presents, all packaged with fancy gift wrapping. Around the left side of the yard was a long table, filled with assortments of food, and a layered cake in the center. Above it was one giant tarpaulin that said “Happy 15th Birthday, Charmaine”. The people who were scattered around the garden were all dressed in fancy clothes— girls wore poofy dresses with ribbons and flowers, women wore heels and cocktail dresses, boys wore buttoned-up shirts and shiny leather shoes, and men wore vests and fancy shoes that you could only find in stores like Polo and Burberry, and in countries like France in Italy.
And there she was. All dressed up in a blue, flowy, knee-length dress. Her hair was tied into a half-ponytail, and her long, straight hair was curled so lightly that it looked as if they were naturally curled. She wore high, strappy, silver heels, which made her look even taller than she already was. She carried herself with a certain pride, even when she bent down to kiss and greet her friends and relatives. She remained poised throughout the entire time— her back was slightly curved, her chin was up, and her shoulders were relaxed. Her beauty was stunning, and the way she carried herself set her apart from the many people who came to greet the her.
“..Charmaine…” He said, in a low, raspy voice— the sound coming from his chest, heaving down as he exhaled her name. He whispered so softly that his own ears could not hear, and he was left with the sensational taste it left in his mouth— and that was enough to keep him going.
He says her name again. And again. And again. With the same intonations, the same tone of voice, the same quiet whisper that he so desperately want her to hear.
He could taste her name in his mouth— like a bittersweet nectar that oozed out with the utmost passion. He felt its burn as it wrapped itself around his lungs, allowing him to only take a few breaths per beat of his heart; it felt warm on his throat, urging him to speak louder, but his voice was so silent it could barely be considered one and instead was an exhale of breath, as the whistle of his lungs filled the silent ringing in the air; it was cold on the tip of his tongue, freezing, even. So cold that he shivered as he spoke her name. So cold that he could actually feel the breeze of winter through his closed room in the middle of spring. So cold that it burned his tongue. But her name was so sweet, so sweet that it slurred off his lips like honey and he could not stop himself from speaking it.
Her name on the tip of his tongue sounded like music. Music like he had never heard before— a ringing sound of harmonies and melodies; bells and tympanis— all blending into each other in a steady symphony. He said her name like a bow strokes the strings of a violin as it plays a gentle tune of a musical piece (so soft, so tender), the resin left a trail of what was and then disappeared into thin air (he would never want anyone to know). He spoke her name like a finger slides through the keys of a grand piano, gliding through every key in a slow rhythm. Even as the melodies rise into great passion, the music remains quiet, silent. He spoke her name like a song, and it breathed music into his ears, and life into his corpse.
Her name brought sense to his being, and somehow, he felt closer to her than ever before.