Glass Sneakers

1st ♕

1st ♕

I watched as my phone's backlight went on and off. The ballad song that was her ringtone went on for a while. During these past years, I associated that particular sound to a fire alarm. A distinct tone that would always tell told you that something was going or would go wrong whenever you heard it.

I might as well get drunk in my tears tonight,

'Cause I miss you, 'cause I love you.

It was her favorite song, Good Meeting You. So whenever she had the slightest time to call, I'd get to hear the song again.

I never asked about the singer. His name might be long forgotten in history, for all I knew. And whoever he was, he had committed a humongous crime against my world.

With the unusual attachment my mother had with that song, I had placed my bet that it was the very song that was playing on the background when she had met my dad. Maybe it was in a bar, dimly lighted as the music softly haunted the place. I'd never known the story. I never had the chance to ask. I personally couldn't even imagine asking. My situation was not as simple as I'd prefer it to be. But it might be one of those I'd speculated before.

One thing that was clear to me was that my mom drunkenly loved my dad in the most literal sense. Like she was intoxicated with the thought. Obsessed, even. I'd like to blame her, really, but my dad got this looks that could make anyone go in absolute awe whenever he passed by, or after they passed out, whichever came first.

Flipping over the cover of my cell phone, I said, "Hey, Mom?"

"Georgey honey, how are you?" she answered back on the other line.

"I'm okay. How are you doing?" I lay down on my bed; the cushion was flattened in between my bed and my back. I could feel the wooden frame pressing against my spine. All this while, I'd regarded the situation as ticklish. Since we lived in the world of make-believe, it was up to you to label things by your own definition. So mine was ticklish.

"Mom misses you so much. Why didn't you drop by when I was there the other week?" she asked with enough worry. My mom worked in real estate. She was everywhere, showing people different homes that could be theirs.

How ironic.

"I was busy with school," I replied.

"Really? I told you to take it easy. School is nothing, trust me," she told me.

"I applied for college," I answered.

"You'll only waste your time there. Just get in love and go get married, like the way I did. You'll miss half of your life—"

I heard her make a sound as if to throw up.

"—be back in a moment."

"Sure. I'll wait," I told her, going back to the textbook that I was reading earlier. It was odd to hear those words from my own mother, but it was like her to say it.

I had no idea where she got that source of conviction. For one, she was thoroughly aware that I hadn't been in love. The last time I felt my heart flutter, I killed it. Before anyone else could, I did the job. Two, what was love? It was nothing but a loophole. An opportunity to make yourself vulnerable. How could something like that be your source of happiness? Be your life, for that matter?

I shuddered at the thought.

So upon reminder, I thoroughly scanned the page of the history textbook that I had borrowed from Pete a few weeks ago. Having the thought that I'd just spend my life wasting away, like my mom, was scary.