Adieu Patrick Ambroise

No sympathetic tear will diminish her agonizing grief, and no empathetic shoulder will wear her heavy head. All of her dreams are leaking; her New Jerusalem is but a dusty, arid land. A lifetime ago, she lit 35 candles: one for each pillar that made up the foundation of her promise land. However, she shockingly witnessed their violent extinctions at the hands of 35 merciless seconds. Hence, while helplessly trying to flood her sorrows and stop the carnage, she poured an Atlantic Ocean, and then she poured a Red Sea.

Friends and family pelted her sorrows with lakes and rivers of rueful emotions; still, she gradually turned into a Sahara, this desolate place where fragmented memories of an innocent life are trapped. She pleaded fervently with fate and its dark angels offering a life for a life. If only she could ride the wind, she would catch the midnight waves, and perhaps would be transported near his traveling soul. Alas, violent sand storms determined to dash any glimmer of hope engulfed all of her pleas.

She sought solace among scorpions and cobras; at long last, she feared not their venoms. They were part of her kingdom; they were part of her being. Her mind wandered endlessly around her lonesome sand castle, desperately searching for some glue or something to help her piece together fragments of his picture: memories that were too short to tell a whole story and too few to make any sense. She will however keep digging in the sands until she finds the right frame for her masterpiece. After all, she still had to protect his legacy. His incomplete tale needed new life through the naïve eyes of his two candles: one of five years, another, three months.

Neither her sun nor any of her many moons shall ever raise again fearing her choler and abominable venom. She was something other than a scorpion, something more atrocious than an angry cobra. She personified anger and her revenge was imminent. Nevertheless, she knew that nothing could unseal fate. She knew that eventually she would have to release the clouds because nothing she did would bring back her son.

Rapadoo

Patrick Ambroise was 35 years old. As he was filing his daily report after his shift, a young man rear-ended his cruiser causing the fuel tank to ignite and trapped him inside. Sadly, he did not get out. His wife, 5-years and 3-months-old daughters, mother, and five siblings survived Patrick. Not only that he was my neighbor, but also we went to school together usually catching the same bus every morning. I am deeply saddened by his tragic death. I have no idea how a mother or a wife must feel after such a devastating lost, but this write frames how I would feel had I been in their shoes. 

City of Manikins

I see a manikin: a breathing, walking manikin. Here is another one, and now there are dozens of them. Like a colony of ants, they are rushing about in all directions, sometimes bumping into each other; however, never talking to one another. Some of them are plugged into some alternate universe through their ears. Others have their eyes glued to books, newspapers, video games, or some entertainment magazines. I must look like an outlier or novice in a bump car motion trying to protect my personal space while trying to respect others’. At this stop, a few more manikins jumps on and robs me of this precious luxury, my personal space. In fact, these ants act as if they have never heard of such a thing or maybe they just didn't care. For instance, this gray one is literally resting her head on my right arm while I am holding the handrail. She is unfazed as if it is her constitutional right. It is the falling rain, the rising sun; it is New York City. I want to say hello to this short one sharing my cocoon. It’s only the right thing to do. After all, he is blowing hot air through my shirt. However, he is off somewhere gazing into the distance unaware of my presence. One stop after another a few manikins hurry off, even more come on, and so goes the routine.

Finally, It dawned on me; I was a manikin in training. Therefore, tomorrow I will become one of them. I will bring my parallel universe with me, and simply plug away. I will not feel bad for not greeting fellow ants even when I share their cocoons. I will avoid making eye contacts while pretending that I am the only manikin on this ride. I will not expect to hear people talk about their weekends, adventures, and/or bloopers. Tomorrow I will be crowned King of Manikin City. It will be the falling rain, the rising sun; it will be New York City.

Rapadoo