Aliens

I.

There is a house in Quezon City where light is afraid to enter. There is no sound because the trees don’t want to listen. The air doesn’t bother to make a pit stop only passing by to pick up the old dust and yellowed newspapers. The paint unrecognizable, the creases of dirty white tearing from the walls losing consciousness of time whisked away by the wind. The green grass lost its old luster hiding behind its own shadow from the sun. The old wooden door is closed and the dilapidated windows are half-open. Everything left behind as it was, the upholstered sofa slanting a little towards the bedroom door. The living room table’s right foot juts out poking the chair’s left leg. The mugs separated from the glasses, the spoons from the forks. Order set apart from chaos. The senile refrigerator forgot how to turn water into ice, the coffee cups can’t tell water from wine, the plates are confused which of them are for breakfast and which are for dessert. It does not know its name. It does not care of these little details. It does not know of its use. A rumbling sound enters the driveway a familiar echo rustles the leaves of the trees. It hears voices. The air crashes into the steel plates of the car. It feels pain. The dilapidated windows reveal the upholstered sofa, the wrinkle that could not be straightened out and the yellow spots of age. It sees.  Slow easy steps enter the house, the knob turns to the right, the door is left ajar, clear fingerprints are left to linger on its skin. It feels.  Light floods the dark room, it blinds the coffee cups, the mugs, the spoons and forks, the table, the sofa, and the refrigerator they are not used to such light.

II.

The soft light illuminates the room darkness slithers into the cracks in the wall. The chair sees the table poking its left leg, the upholstered sofa sees its wrinkles and yellowed skin offended by its grotesqueness, the refrigerator felt shame for not turning water into ice. The shadowy figure looks around takes the design in digests and churns out a few words through his cellphone. Brushes the dusty table with his left hand and sits on the chair goes back to his car and brings a broom and a vacuum. He starts cleaning and scrubbing. Arranging the furniture and clearing the dust. The sofa realized its was not supposed to be slanting towards the bedroom door. The dust and stains removed it feels fresh and new it remembers its former beauty. The table’s right leg replaced with a new one no longer poking the chair (a sigh of relief came out from the chair’s cushion). The refrigerator plugged in which revitalized its old motor making blocks and blocks of ice much to its delight. The man brings out a sachet of Nescafe and creamer it takes a coffee cup and mixes, the coffee cup remembers it was not for water nor wine. It remembers its name. It cares of these little details. It remembers its use. It remembers the memory of light its warmth and luminosity.

III.

The man leaves the house momentarily wipes his face with his handkerchief removing the dirt and sweat. Reaches for his cellphone on his right pocket dials seven digits a woman picks up on the other line. He says, “let’s go home.”