Nectar Behind the Clouds

Chapter 18 - The Old Guitar

You took me to the cliff where your friends pushed me before. You wanted to replace the bad memory with a good one. I smiled at the idea. I wondered if you were still friends with them.

I wanted to ask. But you looked peaceful staring out into the ocean, then closing your eyes as sleepy warm wind made you yawn. We napped with old tunes in our ears.

When the cool wind picked up, you raised your arms like an airplane. It ruffled our long hair like blades of dark grass.

"The province never changes even if we do." You looked at me, somber. You kicked sand. "I love this place. But sometimes, I keep imagining if I could just..." your fingers formed into two legs running. And then into a fish swimming. And into a bird flapping away to the endless sky.

"You could come with me to the city," I said. "Stay at our place. Papa will be thrilled to have you." I've been thinking about this for almost a year now.

You shook your head. "I would owe you for the trip. I would owe you too much."

I was about to protest. Here we go again, I thought. But you smiled and covered my lips with your hand, grabbing something in the bushes nearby.

My eyebrows shot up at the sight of an old guitar. You showed me the strings and pegs.

"I found it near the dump site. It had a broken peg. That was it. One of the richer kids from the subdivision must not have bothered to fix it. Can you believe my luck?"

You were smiling as if you were showing me a brand-new car. Or a puppy. You looked so adorable. You showed me an old magazine with faces of rock bands and solo music artists and told me you spent your free time learning the chords.

"Well?" I said, "Show me." I sat attentively, cross-legged on the sand. And in that moment it seemed like the waves and wind held their pace to listen to you.

You seemed nervous suddenly, fingers shaking. I breathed encouragement. You took a breath and steadied them. A short chuckle escaped your lips.

You closed your eyes. Your words flowed as your fingers tickled the instrument. I knew the song well. "Bakit nga ba mahal kita..."

I groaned to break the tension. Everyone was singing this song. I heard it over a hundred times by now, but I felt captivated when I listened to you in this spot.

You opened your eyes and invited me to sing with you, just like last summer.

___

I felt like a reed when the wind pushed past. Our voices mingled, trying to catch the right notes, the guitar strings keeping us in tempo, in tune. You finished with a flourish.

I clapped, you bowed. And then we held each other's gaze as our laughter quelled in our throats. It was a prickling thing, like cloths knitted together.

It was the ghost of the music; the message that lingered in the soft haze of the sun, the steady beating of the waves below.

My heart insisted that there was more weight to it when you sang it. It made us turn away from each other, suddenly shy. It felt like a gushing, swelling bee settled itself nicely in something that was blooming in me.

When we turned to look at each other again, your eyes were searching mine.

I swallowed. You did not stare at me so intently before. It felt like you were digging for something. You looked like the time when you found a pearl in one of the many oysters you caught.

A magnetic pull, a force, like how air feeds flame, like how boys looked at girls, and how girls tried not to look at boys. It was the way Papa used to look at Mama.

You were making me feel warm and cold. It made the hairs on my arms stand as if chilled by the wind. It was like the first night I met you as the moonlight pulled a mighty wave to blanket me.

"You have grown... well," you said slowly. The heat radiating from you seemed to burn me. I chuckled nervously. "Are you cold?" you asked when your eyes fell on the hairs standing on my skin.

"No. Are you?" I said when I saw the same kind of gooseflesh on your arms.

"I think I am." You smiled and sounded apologetic.

You hugged me, and we huddled together. You felt nice, warmer than any blanket I owned, I thought.

"I missed you." You touched the end of my finger. A pleasant shiver crawled from there. "It would be nice, though, wouldn't it? If only you could be here. If only I could be there."

"Us walking the sunset street every day," I said.

"Us picking mangoes. Diving into the waters. Whenever we wanted," you said.

We let that fantasy linger; strengthened and almost made real under the blissful night. Under the twinkling stars, wishes and dreams were freer. My head rested on your shoulder. So close, we were; two trees planted in one patch of soil.

"I could never play," I whispered. "My fingers were trained to draw, but I have yet to control strings and percussion.

To me, music was as wonderful as stories penned to existence. It was a connection to the divine, to muses unnamed. We were meant to sing, to tell stories, to connect, to entertain. To love. We are more beautiful for it.

We were meant more than to toil and labor. We hurt. We hope. We cry. We live.