Cinderella's Diary

FOUR

FOUR

            It was twelve years ago or so, if my memory served me right. This boy I’ve seen with eyes that shone like stars. Or that would be my own exaggeration at being overwhelmed by him. His beauty so to speak—was warm and welcoming. He turned his head at me. My heart stopped. His slim fingers almost sliding and touching through the oil canvass. I would have neared him, if only to pretend looking at the same painting of Van Gogh’s most popular twelve, golden sunflowers. The quiet elegance of its simplicity—with a bare minimum touch of choice colors; some things in this world are better left raw and undaunted.

            I noticed it too. In the manner that he approached me. How his eyes seemed to light up even more, just by adding one step at a time. With my heart fluttering and my hand fidgeting, I moved back. Before I had disappeared behind one of the tall sculptures; a masterful creation of a naked Adonis in his immaculate glory. He wondered at my disappearance and the direction of it. Hoping he wouldn’t give chase; I didn’t think I could face him. In an instant, he was right there—at the other side of the statue. Holding his hand out to me, he said: “Hi I’m…”

I jerked my head at the sound of awakening engine. Great! Just what I needed, a daydreaming feat to keep me from noticing Marian had gone down stairs, leaving me to my thoughts. Once more, I slid my fingertips on the middle thread of my notebook. It was wide spread, with its written filled pages. This wasn’t a proper diary. Not even close to it. A journal perhaps by its intent and purpose; but it wouldn’t replace the one that’s been lost. Katherine had lost it.

I ignore these passing thoughts in my head. It was a long time ago. Nothing I do will ever bring it back. More so the writing, poems and prose I’ve written there. The last remnants of my writing have gone and fled. Never to return; what I’ve written there, I can never write again. As most artists say: “Only masterpiece is unlike the others; cannot be repeated or re-done.”  Sadly, that goes for the creator too, the inspiration in creating it is lost forever. I am out my room and jogging down the stairs.

“Be careful dear,” says momma as she watched me go down.

“Yes I will.”

As I reached the door of our main entrance, I caught up to Marian. Who looked about ready to go, she glanced at me, “You didn’t even take the time to see your newly painted car.”

“I’m going to look at it now,” I said in a rush, my words all cramped up in my mouth “I’m sure it rocks.” I added with a dramatic two thumbs up.

She smiled and shook her head, “You’re hopeless,” her cheerful mood returned and brightened her face “Let’s have a look, see…”

Sure enough, it was dazzling. Better than I had expected, maw-maw’s backstreet buddies had pimped my ride—like it was going to show on MTV. Well, granted that it was simply painted in pearly white, but it was waxed and shined to perfection. It transformed back into the brand new model I purchased from the Toyota Service Center of luxury cars grand collection. This high-end Altis was top of the line. First and only one of a kind in the Philippines, almost at par with the elite’s Lexus. And although I could have gone with that, this car seemed to choose and want me to. Driver and automobile alike; it was automatic of course, as was my other car. Which was by the way, parked right next to it. After all [Winconnsten], the white Altis and [Bodeir], the black Volvo were man-and-wife. I took the liberty in marrying them off to each other. At least the cars were made for each other—had someone, while their owner, still waited for God’s best and miracle. Not that I was complaining, had no right to do so actually. I am well cared, unemployed or employed—whatever the case. I had resources to deplete to outlast me a lifetime. Excluding the businesses of my inheritance, I sighed. But all these…couldn’t make me happy. It wasn’t what I wanted in life…it was a great deal more than that. One that money cannot buy, unforced and chosen: Charles’ love and affection…