Man … can go up against gravitation in a balloon, and why
should he not hope that ultimately he may be able to stop or
accelerate his drift along the Time-Dimension,
or even turn about and travel the other way.
-H.G. WELLS, The Time Machine
I
As a boy, I saw my life in a glass of milk.
The chocolate chip cookies that mom used to make
softly caressing my tongue. The taste
a bite of candied childhood of scarred knees
and singing in the rain. Its sweet aroma
suffuses each nose with lola’s recipe.
Passed from first daughter to first daughter,
imbued with the image of love and care.
Of spotless white sheets and warm freshly ironed clothes.
Arranged by color the blues from the whites. By use
the underwear from the shirts, the shirts from the
pants. Arranging life for a reluctant little child
who finds laughter hiding in the closet of playful disorder.
The world hangs in the balance of revolving doors.
To-and-fro empty attics of dusty memories
old songs of laughter, black and white photographs
of worn out wedding gowns and tuxedos.
In that kitchen where lola’s yellow apron
was a fixture of wonder and delight.
The smell of tinola and adobo lingers upon
her smooth white dress and airy fingers.
In that lawn secrets hiding under a Mango tree.
A lack of understanding why Adam kissed Steve.
Upon a string of a blue balloon carried off
to a foreign land by a jet fighter. An astronaut
to the moon. Soiled hand upon soiled hand
on that grass of shared dreams and chocolate ice cream.
The world filled with so many possibilities.
“I can’t wait to grow up.”
II
I liked walking into lolo’s room. A pastiche
of Nat King Cole’s Unforgettable with a dab of
musky old perfume. His old stories of days
carried off by the wind and whispers of the
leaves. Of Japanese bombs raining a cloud of
nimbus. Re-awakened tales of youth vivid
across a white canvas. A farm of carabaos
an untouched land of rice fields and corn.
Calloused hands, sweltering heat.
The telling of old jokes and antics with his dentures off
of men I didn’t know of Charlie Chaplin and Houdini
never ceased to light a smile on my face.
But what I remember most about lolo were
his bright brown eyes. Its as if they were
my own, upon a clear blue mirror of water.
III
A summer of first loves upon the dew of sunlight.
Take a picture with a bottle of champagne.
Hold it in your hand, never let it go.
Dance with it in the moonlight, till the dawn breaks.
Make love to it under the red hot sun
until the music melts in your palms.
It must be love.
Love or something like it.
Enclosed in a letter.
IV
I wish I could hold you forever
in the stillness of a picture.
Your warm smile, and sweet demeanor.
Breakfast in bed of bacon and eggs,
of careless whispers in the night.
The way your dress twirls when we dance
to Eric Clapton’s The Way You Look Tonight.
Your memories slowly slipping from my hands!
Trickling slowly on that dark night of rain…
Your slippers under the bed, I resuscitate them
to bring them back to life. I walk on them on that
same green grass of our first kiss. To feel your feet
to feel your skin on my soles. I wear your glasses
Our child’s first steps, our wedding day!
Flashes in an instance.
Bring back those sweet memories
and hold time in my palms!
V
As an old man, I see my life in the laughter of a child.
The mirth of patintero and the relish
of chocolate ice cream after the heat of the sun.
His wary steps and bright eyes.
His uncertain words of a death foretold.
I can only show him my scars of
unseen dreams and nightmares.
Of stories of years gone by and love lost.
His bright brown eyes of wonder
and dreams of traveling on a balloon.
Re-invigorates my old and wary steps.
Life is beautiful in the present.
