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| A smile that explodes the sky.
     
She was beautiful, you know, but quiet too. She didn't need the incessant chatter of those around her to occupy her thoughts. Instead, she filled her mind with the voices of the silent. 'There's much to be discovered in the faces of the unspoken,' she'd used to say. That in the utter muteness, you can hear the earth speaking to you.
'The earth?' I used to ask skeptically.
'Yes, the earth,' she would always reply back.
'But what do you mean?'
'Darling boy, don't you know? The earth is everything and nothing at all. It's the sounds of the leaves rustling on a cool, October morning. It's the creak of a door in the stillness of the night. It's the whisper of a butterfly's wings as it lightly grazes your cheek.'
I would just look at her, wondering and thinking and questioning. She wouldn't say a word, only smile that same, shy smile. It's one of those smiles that made you look twice. A smile that seemed to declare she knew something that you didn't and in a sense, she did. You see, she had this -- this thing about her. I can't really describe it but it's like she understood something that was far greater than herself. That the nonsense flowing from her lips actually held some truth to it.
'But --'
'Shh. Just listen,' she silenced me with a finger gently pressed to her lips. 'Just listen.'
With that said, she would lay back on the soft grass; eyes closed and features relaxed. The sunlight streamed through the trees and soft freckles of light would scatter from the bridge of her nose to the peaks of her cheeks. I would lay beside her and close my eyes, trying my best to feel the things she felt. But in the end, I was awkward and unsure. Restless, I squirmed around until I felt her hand touch mine. The delicate pads of her fingertips filled the gap between my fingers, and her grasp was light and sweet.
I don't know how long we laid there like this -- eyes closed and hands intertwined. But she was right, I heard the voices of the silent. But I didn't hear the earth. I heard the whisper of her eyelashes as they fluttered closed. I heard the alluring rhythm of her breathing. I heard the faint rustle of her dress against the grass. I heard the subtle kisses the sunlight sprinkled all over her face. And I heard the soft sigh of our hands as they clasped together.
And at that moment, I wanted to tell her that she was wrong. The earth wasn't speaking to me; she was. With each sound, I felt myself plunge deeper and deeper into the essence of her smile.
I often wondered what the earth would tell her. Did it confide in her the secrets of the universe? Or did it tell her that she didn't have many days left? That one day, she would let go of my hand and run into the arms of its warm soil. It's been one year, four months, and three days since she's left.
But she's not gone.
I can hear her soft laughter in the rustle of the leaves on a cool, October morning. I can hear her lips spreading into a shy smile when a door creaks in the night. I can feel her gentle kiss as a butterfly's wings lightly brush against my cheek. But most of all, I can still hear the soft sigh of her hand clasping my own.
And in my mind, that is the sweetest sound of all.
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| Wow, summer has zoomed by. When I think about all that I've accomplished during these past two months, I can't help but feel ashamed -- unfulfilled somehow. My memories are a blur of smiling faces, disappointments, laughter, and heartaches. But everything feels unsubstantial after this past week, where I got the scare of my life. It was a Saturday afternoon and I was over at Devan's, watching a movie with the girls. I called my mother to tell her where I was but when she picked up, I immediately knew something was wrong. "I'm in the E.R. right now -- your grandmother's very sick." My heart wrenches when I think about how helpless I felt at that moment. I asked her what I should do and if I should drive over to the hospital. "Honestly Linda, it'll be best if you just stayed right there. Your grandmother doesn't want you to see her like this." So the hours ticked by and I went home. With every waking moment, my body became taunt with worry. At around 10 that night, the shrill noise of the telephone pierces the air. "Hello?" "It's mom." I will never forget the sound of my mother's voice when she said those two words. Her voice was raspy and sounded so tired. I feared for the worst within the seconds of her first words to her next. My heart pounded within my chance and my eyes watered up. "How is she?" "Much better but still very weak. I'll be home soon." To say that my mother is a woman of few words will be an understatement. When she's stressed like this, it's hard to get anything out of her -- so I just had to wait. When the lock clicked in and the door opened 30 minutes later, I jumped up from my seat and asked her what happened. She told me that my grandmother got pneumonia and suffered a minor heart attack. They brought her over to the hospital when her temperature skyrocketed to a 104 degrees. She was vomiting and wheezing and scaring the shit out of all of us. However, this proved to be the beginning of a very long night. At around 1 am, my mother received a call from the hospital. My grandmother's temperature increased all of a sudden and we were needed. When we arrived, just the sight of my grandmother in that narrow hospital bed sent me to my knees. Her face was gaunt and pale. She lost a lot of weight and God, the image brings this awful pain in the middle of my chest. Even in her weakened state, my grandmother looked at me and smiled. "God sent me back so I can see your face one last time." I grasped her cold hand within mine and kissed her on the cheek. When we left that night, my mother's words resounded through my head. "Mom, don't hurt yourself. If you die, it will be okay. Don't worry about us because we know you'll be with God. We just want you to be happy." I knew from the look in her eyes that it took courage to say that and I cannot admire her enough.  It has been two days since then and she's slowly but surely getting better. Even as I'm typing this, I turn my head to the left where my grandmother's resting in the same narrow bed. It's a small room but there's a window and that's enough. It's a beautiful day -- the sky is pale blue and small, wispy clouds are scattered. I can only thank God at this moment where I can reach over and grasp my grandmother's warm hand. Her body goes up and down with her deep breaths and my body is at peace. ---- From a book I read two months ago. http://www.nytimes.com/books/first/l/lahiri-maladies.html  | | |
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She held her hand out to
capture the sun. It glittered in her palm;
a reflection of god. When she spread her fingers it spilled through the cracks. He watched it trickle in solid gold lines
across the floor
and he thought,"Silly girl, it’s the
beautiful things that are hardest to hold
on too."
As time seems to fly by, the distance between my last entry to the next one grows larger. I need to write more, honestly.
Many, many things has happened since then; many of which I will hold close to my heart forever.
----
Death has always been a constant fear for me. Death of any shape and form. The thoughts of my own death haunt me at night, and the mere idea of the death of a loved one is unfathomable. However, there comes a time in every person's life where you must face reality.
She was my eighth grade social studies teacher. Although I was not close to her than the average student-teacher relationship, my heart still cried out for her and her family. As I recall, I was in complete shock the first day I found out. I remember just lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling -- willing myself to cry or move or do something. But I could not cry; I could not think; I could not breathe.
It was the next day that I truly broke down. The bell rang and I entered first period. The memories of her smiling face just entered my mind, overwhelming my mental capacity and the tears begin to flow. Softly at first, then fiercely -- too strong for me to raise my head. I place them on my arms, cradling myself from the outside world. I didn't want to confront the truth, didn't want people to ask me what is wrong, I didn't want to have to hear myself responding.
I did not want to hear myself say that someone I knew was gone.
On the following Saturday, her family had a visitation set up for her. My friends and I all went together -- relying on each other for strength. It was my first time in a funeral home and honestly, it shocked me a bit. The building itself was very stereotypical; beige, dull and tan. But it was the people within it that surprised me. Though many cried, there were many who were also smiling and talking. I held onto my two friends tighter as we entered the door. The room was adorned with memories of her: pictures, flowers, and family.
One by one, we were introduced to her family and I remembered the look in their eyes. Despite everything, they put up a brave front. The most memorable was when I stood in front of her father. He took my hand and pressed a kiss to my left cheek. I can not remember his words and I can not remember my replies. But I remember that his words were kind and my heart went out to him.
Parents should not bury their children.
Finally, we were in front of her casket. Her husband lingered close, but this time, I remember his words. He told us how much her students meant to her and how she could not love him the same way as she loved us. The look on his face expressed his sadness and his utter disbelief that she was gone. He looked toward her body every now and then, a sad but fond look in his gaze. His face was shallow and his eyes had bruises underneath them.
My head tilted towards the body and my breath stopped short. I could not believe that she was gone. My last moment I remember was when she cried on the last day of school. Her tears were sincere.
Now, she lay motionless with a gray tinge to her coloring. Nevertheless, she was beautiful. Her warm heart and kind manner will never be forgotten, and this is the truth. Ever since then, I think of her at least once a day.
In the car that night, I reprimanded myself because I could not cry. I try to force the tears so that I may not appear heartless and cruel but my efforts were in vain. I just rolled down the window and let the wind blow onto my face. I don't remember much after I left the funeral home. I remember walking into my house and going into my room.
I stretched myself on the bed and looked towards the ceiling -- no, I looked through the ceiling to the Heavens above. In that moment, I prayed for her family and her loved ones.
I think back and realize the true impact she had on my life.
Her class was where I met my six best friends. I truly can not remember my life without them. They have become such an important aspect. And then I realized that death is not the end of a relationship. The memories and effects of that person's life is forever embedded into the deepest recesses of my soul.
I don't really know how to say this but thank you.
Thank you.
--
 
Death is everywhere. It surrounds our every being, but in every corner
we turn, we encounter life. What inspired me to write about my experience today was the
tragic incident at Virigina Tech. I pray for everyone there and I can
not fathom how people are dealing with such grief and sorrow.
God, please guide us and help us for we are here for your molding. Let us bring our sorrows and accomplishments to you and may you use us for your will.
Amen.
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| We are cups, constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is, knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out. Ray Bradbury There's a pile of homework that I haven't even started on and yet, I'm sitting here, finding every excuse to prolong the task. First, I did some reading and then made a playlist for the myspace. And now, I'm typing an entry.
It's not that I forgot about my xanga, quite the contrary in fact, but by definition, I am a perfectionist. There have been many occasions and instances where I sat before this very screen, my fingers itching to type something, but I hold back. Because the very thought of submitting something for the public, even if no one reads it, is frightening. I become so overwhelmed about my paranoia that I don't even make the effort to write anything.
But don't get me wrong, I have a journal, more of a notebook really, where from time to time I will scribble down some thoughts, but it's nothing too concrete. Nevertheless, in this moment of absolute insanity and obscurity, I have decided to just voice my thoughts as they come. 
As the cold air becomes warmer, the scent of spring fills the air. All around me, I hear the different voices around me and I become deliriously sad. Everything has been such a mess lately. It's not even one of those easy messes either, where you can fix it with a cup of hot chocolate on a cold day, but those deep-rooted messes that slowly, yet effectively creeps upon you until you're consumed by it.
I just feel so stuck right now. Since the time of my last entry to this current one, my life has been filled with meaningless words and undesirable outcomes that amount to absolutely nothing. Whereas my days were once filled with excitement and adventure, is now an aspect of mere survival. Each new day brings an unattractive prospect of insubstantial chatter and hours of work.
And that's the worst part. I cannot think. I cannot move. My brain has forever embedded itself into the darkest recesses of my body and it's a constant game of hide and seek. It's just so weird. With a certain group of friends, I can't stop talking. But when I'm at lunch, I can hardly contribute to the conversation and I'm left in the background.
I have become highly sensitized to every little action and each distinct syllable brings in a different connotation. But there has been a plus side to this lack of speech. I've noticed and observed others. If we just stop talking; stop worrying and stop thinking, we realize that there are so many things to explore. But you can't bask in silence forever.
It's just too damn lonely.
--
Hahaha, I was just thinking about all my entries and realized how depressing each sounded. But honest to God, I'm not always like this. By writing whatever is bothering me is just a way of releasing that burden from my shoulders.
It's currently 12:36 A.M. and I have to finish my 20 page AP reading done by 3:00 P.M. tomorrow afternoon.
Current number of pages read: 0.
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| I realize that New Year’s Eve has long been over, but the feeling of it still aches within me; beckoning forth a pen and paper to relieve its tight hold from my mind.
--
I dreamed I was dying; as I so often do
And when I awoke I was sure it was true
I ran to the window; threw my head to the sky
And said whoever is up there, please don't let me die
But I can't live forever, I can't always breathe
One day I'll be sand on a beach by a sea
The pages keep turning, I'll mark off each day with a cross
And I'll laugh about all that we've lost
Calendar Girl who is lost to the world
Stay Alive 
The sky cried as though if it was in mourning. The tears fell softly at first, one by one, but in the next instant, the landscape became subjected to the blind sorrow of the weather; when soft pellets of cold rain hit the ground repeatedly, leaving it slick and wet.
It was just another, ordinary Sunday. And with ordinary, there accompanies a routine.
wakeup.gotochurch.visitgrandmother.home.
As I got out of my car, I turned around and gazed upon the large, foreboding building that stood before me. A small signed indicated its purpose and stood awkwardly next to its subject, as though intimidated by its sheer enormity. Go to church: check.
I entered the doors of my church with my sister in tow. Once again, I was late, but only by a few minutes. As I took my seat, I looked at the bodies around me. Through all the voices and bodies, I could make out those who worshipped with zeal and others whose voices sounded mechanic: hollow. Like mine.
I realized that my faith has taken a backseat in the order of my priorities. I’ve traded in my passion in God for something more tangible like friends, school, and family. Every Sunday during confession, I prayed to God to cleanse me of my sins and to guide me into the right path. I’ve committed so many crimes against Him and I do not deserve his mercy and grace because in truth, I became something I vowed never to be:
A Sunday Christian.
It’s not the first time I’ve come to this conclusion, but it’s just the first time I had the heart to admit it to myself. The pastor’s question resounds in my head:
“Has the fire in your heart for God died out?”
Yes.
The words he spoke and the emotions I felt go hand in hand; synchronizing in every form and way. My life has categorized itself into different compartments and that God was cramped into the smallest one. And it is God who I have neglected the most. The pastor’s sermon continues about changing oneself so completely that you become a new creature to be “in Christ.”
Because despite the fact I am a Christian, I was not with or in Christ. I no longer seek to know his word or question it in order to reach a deeper understanding. My overall faith has become static.
I can place the blame on many events and people, but ultimately, it won’t change the fact that it was I who was in control. I let myself get too comfortable and too settled in my routine. There were many opportunities to involve myself and many doors that allowed me to become deeper in my faith.
As I reflect upon this past year, my mind becomes muddled and dazed with small memories. Although these intimate memories are intertwined with laughter and happiness, I am left feeling unfulfilled.
And it was in that moment, in the pinnacle of my weakness, that I became set in my resolve. I will and must change the person I have become. The excitement and devotion I held in the past for Christ still lingers within me and due to its absence, the reasons for my troubles in my life become stunningly clear.
The worship comes to a close and I step out into the rain. As the rain comes down, I realized that I was terribly mistaken. The dark clouds above me were not mourning, but instead, purifying; washing away everything for the new year. All is wiped clean as a blank canvas and thus, I am reborn a new creature. And with this thought, I close my eyes and turn my head towards the heavens.
The rain will wash me clean.
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