"Wherever sorrow is, relief would be
If you do sorrow at my grief in love
By giving love, your sorrow and your grief
We're both extermin'd."
- Silvius to Phoebe, As If You Like it, Act 3 Scene 3
December 21, 2055
Dear Miss Maine Mendoza,
I am Anne Rae Faulkerson, first-born to Richard and Mia Faulkerson, writing from the Philippines, and I believe only you have the right to see what was enclosed in this letter.
I am forty years old, and is currently living at Sampaloc, Manila. I am pleased to inform you that life has been good to me and I am married to a wonderful man, blessed with two kids (two pretty girls).
Now, you are probably wondering why, of all people, I am telling you these things.
My surname sounded too familiar, I know. If I am guessing this right, your age is around sixty-five, and I am also hoping you could still read this letter; I hope, a lot in fact, that you still remain vivacious, like in my father's stories.
Unfortunately, I am now left with my twin brother, William Rus, also living here in the Philippines. Yes, both my parents have passed away.
My mother passed away when I was younger; a lot, lot younger. My memories of her haven't been clear enough for me to remember. I only remember a beautiful woman with jet black hair, bouncing with waves, teaching me how to write my name for the first time, walking me to school whenever she can, and a few more things which I cannot recall now. My dearest mother died at childbirth, and the sibling we were supposed to have joined her in the afterlife.
Needless to say, we grew up with my father; who raised us in the best ways possible. He tamed unruly William like the devil but nurtured the soft Anne like an angel; he was a mixture of all the things a lonely child could wish for. He played both roles with ease - he sidestepped from being an understanding mother who was there to listen to her child's woes to a strict father who wanted to discipline his child's misdeeds.
My father became both the hero and the heroine of our lives, Miss Maine. He saved us from the misery of not having a mother through childhood to puberty to early stages of adulthood. He spared us from any longing; he loved us to his heart's extent. I cannot wish for more. He was simply the best and he left us not wanting for a better one.
But Madame... it is my father now - who needed saving.
My father possessed symptoms of Alzheimer's three years ago, which was actually an early age for his physique... but it turned out to be - that. We have to introduce ourselves repeatedly; even his favorite granddaughter, my daughter we like to call Dei, has to turn away from her Lolo Chard because she was hurt.
He cannot remember anything. My father, who knew everything, who felt everything, who taught us everything we knew up to this very day - forgot every single thing he knew.
Except your name, Madame.
It is only your name he remembers.
I remember hearing stories of a heroine I thought he invented himself since he's gotten so good at writing, named Nicomaine, and I also remember myself laughing. Such a peculiar name, I say, but he'll turn stern, and tell me not to insult the name since that was indeed, the most beautiful he had ever heard in his whole life.
And he'll tell me, oh please don't ask the number of times because it is endless, that he was the first man who conquered the moon. Not Neil Armstrong, not anyone else.
Just Richard Faulkerson.
In my latter years, I slowly began to ignore his stories. He'll tell me the moon's stubborn; it refused to be conquered, to be told things it should do. I start to scold him as I was going through my early years of puberty; I reason out today that I was allowed to go through rebellion and angst.
And he stopped, when we were thirteen, when we were matured enough not to believe. The adventures of Nicomaine, the greatest heroine, and Richard Faulkerson, the "first" man on the moon - who wasn't written or mentioned in any books. He'll say its information classified. We just.. turned our backs on him.
Forgive me for being stupid, Madame - for figuring out that Nicomaine is a real person who exists here in Earth, and not just a result of my father's imagination. I have always thought that you were my mother; I have always thought that you were his idea of my mother he had in his head; I have always thought you were the result of his unsaid longing.
He loved my mother, I knew that. I remember him crying and apologizing on her funeral, without knowing why, without knowing the reason behind the hidden tears my father shed while staring at her picture at night when I'll peek through his bedroom door because I can't sleep and William snores.
And three years ago, he started talking of his misery, of the unfortunate tale of the Earth, the Moon, and the Sun.
He thought I was there for his therapy; my heart ached at the thought he could not even recognize someone close, someone of flesh, but he could remember his heroine, Nicomaine. He told me things; aging and dying Richard told me things even William refused to hear. I remember his words clearly; I have that recorded in my head. I have that playing again and again, at night, when everything's at peace except my mind.
Nurse, he'll say to me. Kilala mo ba si Nicomaine?
And I'll answer back, Hindi, Pa. Sino ba 'yun?
Then he'll say things, repeatedly. The Earth loved the Moon dearly, but the Moon turned her back away from the Earth, and blah, blah, the Sun arrived and made him whole, made him feel loved. And before the Earth knew it, he was falling, deeply - even the Moon coming back could not make his heart dedicated to the Sun waver a bit. The Earth had made mistakes, alright, but he went home to his lovely Sun, still.
And again, forgive me, Madame, for thinking that all those were fictional.
To compensate for my lack of understanding and compassion for my father's stories, enclosed in this mail are his letters he spent his last months writing. His penmanship had gotten blurry, like his memories, so I have to translate it for you. I only included those papers I saved, fortunately, for proof.
My father... was apologetic. He's been sorry for a lot of things. He knew you two had Caius before you left for Florida, or so the letters say, but backed out of guilt.
He was sorry for not being the world to your son, he was sorry for letting you leave, he was sorry for turning his back on the moon, he was sorry for a lot of things he wasn't able to do when he had the chance to.
He was even sorry for not being able to live another life because his first wasn't entirely dedicated to you.
Madame, if you would see my father's state months ago, you would think he'll build you an altar and pray there every night.
As unfortunate it can be, my father was rushed to the hospital months ago as he escaped... and had forgotten where he was. He was hit by a car and died of blood loss.
But Madame, oh Madame - please know that your name was the last breath he took. When William and I arrived, the doctor and nurse both asked us who Nicomaine is as my father repeatedly asked for you, for Nicomaine to remain, for Nicomaine to hold his hand while he leave his earthly body.
His sweet, sweet Nicomaine.
I know the parts of the lives you shared hadn't been exactly nice, but please. Please forgive my father who only loved you in the way he can, and wished for the well-being of you and your son even if his hadn't been. Madame, please forgive my father for you remained as his first, true, and great love even after all these years.
You were the woman he told his children about.
You were the woman he remembered when all had been forgotten.
You were the greatest love he never had the luxury of having until the end.
You were his treasured and much beloved heroine, Madame.
He doesn't need saving - but still wanted to be - since it's you.
I will be dropping off from here, Madame, since I can only hope this mail reaches you. You may wonder why, despite all the kinds of technology the world had today I have chosen to send you this the traditional way... but I know my father would have appreciated it better, if done this way.
I hope this mail reaches you after weeks, and if you may be so kind to reply, I am sending you all my regards and to my brother Caius, if I may be so bold as well to be allowed to call him that.
Sincerely yours,
Anne Rae