Touch the Sky by Mayari H. L.

This story is part of the Make it Bitter or Make it Better Writing Challenge, where we invited writers to explore the storytelling possibilities of a simple situation. We gave authors free reign to interpret the prompt as they see fit, provided that they give their story a clear ending.

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Touch the Sky

by: Mayari H. L.

I walk alone through the cemetery, looking at tombstones, reading names and quickly calculating ages.

My phone suddenly beeps. It's a text message. He's asking where I am. So I tell him. He says he's coming over. I say I'll wait. 

I sit on a bench beneath an acacia tree, thankful for its shade. It's still hot, even when it's around five in the afternoon. The perks of being in a tropical country in the Caribbean. Though I was born and raised in the Philippines, I've spent the last four years in Canada. Where winters can get really cold. The warmth is actually a respite. But I realized I still haven't changed after all. I still get headaches after sun exposure. 

His motorbike turns around the corner and he catches sight of me. He slows down and stops in front of me. He removes his helmet and kicks on the side stand. But he doesn't get off his bike.

"What are you doing in a cemetery? It's not a place a tourist would usually visit." 

I give him that look. The one I perfected over the years. The one that says "Are you being serious right now?" 

"Do I look like the usual tourist to you?" 

He laughs. He knows I have my peculiarities. He's just trying to get a reaction out of me. He loves doing that — making me lose my chill.

Hearing him laugh does things to my body. Things I'd rather keep to myself. But I try to act all cool and unbothered. 

I stand up and start walking to a tombstone. I read the name out loud, and the date of birth and death. 

"Do you think someone still remembers him? Is his name still mentioned, even in passing, during parties or gatherings?"

He's right behind me so he moves forward to see what I was talking about. 

"1992-2019. He was 27. It's been 11 years. His peers are already married with children by now. They probably still talk about him. Wish he's still around." 

He knows it's already time for my dinner so he offers to drive me to a café. 

"I don't care about being rich. I just want to be remembered long after I'm gone." 

He was already straddling his motorbike, getting it to start. My voice makes him shoot his head up. 

"I never forgot you... Even when I didn't hear from you."

I go quiet. Because, what do I even say to that?

He hands me a helmet. I get on the bike behind him and he drives in silence.

I sit across from him, the table between us — a physical representation of the years we spent apart. Cups of coffee getting cold in the warm Cuban air, waiting to be noticed. He says nothing, just smiles and waits for me to collect my thoughts, and blurt out the first thing that comes into mind. He knows how my mind works — he thinks it's fascinating. But I'm not the same person he met four years ago.

I tell him we should watch the stars tonight because the weather is just perfect. He drives us to the field where he usually goes. It's just like the one in the picture he sent me before. 

"Did you know that the closest star to the earth besides the sun, called Proxima Centauri is around 4.25 light-years away?" He just looks at me in silence, wondering where the conversation was heading. 

"It's not really visible to the eye, but if you can see it, you'll be looking at something that once was 4.25 years ago. You'll be staring at the past." I pause, waiting for my words to land. Not knowing what sort of response I'll get. 

"I don't remember much of what I was doing four years ago. But I know on one of those nights, I was here staring at the stars... Wondering which version of the sky you were looking at on your side of the world. I was here writing poems for someone who wouldn't read them." 

"I wrote you letters, you know. Handwritten ones. Four years ago. But you'll never get to read them. I left them around my city."

He asked what I wrote. I gazed at him briefly and smiled. I look back at the night sky.

"I don't know. It's been a long time. Te amaré hasta el final. (I will love you until the end.) Or something like that. Maybe." 

He looks at me. I mean, really looks at me. Like he was seeing me for the first time. 

I glance back at him and point to the sky. 

"Maybe we should ask the stars. They're still in the past, after all. I've written an awful lot of things in the past four years. I'm not bound to remember everything." 

He looks at where I was pointing and takes a deep breath. 

"You may not remember everything you wrote. I don't either. But I sure as hell remember what I felt."

I see him adjust his footing from the corner of my eye after I kept quiet. I heard him alright. I just don't know how to respond to him. 

"I remember loving you. In the only way I knew how. Given the ocean between us. Given the circumstances."

Hearing his statement made me turn my head suddenly towards his direction. A bitter smile forms on my lips. 

"Sometimes, love alone isn't enough."

He knows I have my focus on him now. He's silent, probably trying his best to translate his thoughts in English. Probably, trying his best to respond at all.

"You're right. Love alone isn't enough. Poetry is great. But presence is vital." 

"We're too old for just poetry now. At least, I am. I'm seven years older than you, after all. I need structure. Stability. Life beyond the ideal. Everyday mundane stuff — things poets don't write about." 

A brief pause. The stillness hangs in the air, as if something other than the words said out loud was being weighed.

"Do you think the stars also wonder about the ones who reach their light? Do they worry that their existence is perceived four years into the future? Perhaps they no longer exist in the present, but in our eyes, they're still there." 

A soft glimmer forms at the corner of his eyes. He's amused by the thought. It's very typical of me to jump from one topic to another. Things which only I can see the connection to. He knows that side of me all too well. At least, that hasn't changed. 

"I'm not sure about the stars. But I know I wrote things four years ago. Dangerous things... And I don't know how they will land now, if I show them to you." 

"Do you think dinosaurs knew that the meteors would end up killing them before they landed? They probably didn't, until they were dying." 

He stares at me in disbelief. Of course I'd bring something as random as dinosaurs into a conversation about stars. That was about poetry and structure before that. He reaches for his phone in his backpocket anyway and starts scrolling. He then hands it to me. 

I stare at the screen, the light reflecting on my eyeglasses. The poem was in Spanish. Of course, it's his first language. It's his primary choice when writing poetry. 

"Que estas palabras te lleguen

Através del mar,

Solo quiero hacerte saber

Que eres tú. Solo tú.

Todavía tú. Siempre tú."

(May these words reach you

Across the sea,

I just want you to know

That it's you. Only you.

Still you. Always you.)

He once asked me years ago what I thought of micropoetry. I forgot what I told him. This verse he wrote four years ago doesn't sound like poetry to me. It's like more of a vow. And I don't know what to say. A literary criticism wouldn't be right at this point. Because what do you say to this, except to either accept it or reject it? 

"Say you are Proxima Centauri, and your light reached me only four years later. If I shine my light back, will you still be around to witness it? Will you still be there, at all?"

I understand the poem perfectly, despite my limited knowledge of Spanish. It's just that, it was written four years ago. If a lot can change in a week, how much more in a year, let alone four years? 

I give him his phone back and try to find comfort in the fact that the darkness makes it harder for my facial expressions to be seen. 

He starts to unbutton his shirt and I immediately reach out my hand to stop him. He laughs and just continues. I'm still confused but he then turns his back on me and tells me to look. 

Ah. He was just showing me his tattoo. One I haven't seen before. But wait, I know that design. Maybe, a bit too well. Of course, it's the one I drew specifically for him: wings like he wanted. A symbol of freedom. He got his wings after all. I'm glad. 

"You said you wanted to give me wings so I got them. I know they're supposed to mean freedom. But when I got them, all I could think of was having enough strength to fly. To be able to reach you." 

I remain silent, letting him finish his thoughts. It's not everyday that he gets to be this honest about his feelings. 

"I saved enough money and went back to finish my psychiatry residency. You were already working on your thesis for your masters degree back then. And there I was, still struggling to finish my training so I can get my doctor's certification. You kept telling me before that it was ok. That I was still young. But really, I didn't want you to see me struggling when you had your life on track. You said it was not a competition. But how could I approach you when I didn't have much to offer?"

I look at him with understanding in my eyes, wishing I knew the right words to say. But I keep my silence, and start to roll the left sleeve of my cardigan. When it doesn't budge, I remove it instead and toss it over my right shoulder. I show him the tattoo on my left forearm. It was a quill — one with the feather intact on the right side, and some leaves on the left. 

"Do you know what leaves these are?"

He shakes his head no. He doesn't have any idea where this conversation is going. Are we talking botany now? Right after he was being honest and vulnerable? 

"They are sequoia leaves." 

He grabs my arm and focuses on them for a good few seconds. Hard to do with the diminished light. He then looks me in the eye, waiting for me to continue. But I don't say anything else. 

"Sequoias stand for thousands of years. This one tree called General Sherman is 2700 years old." 

Of course, I'd spew out random data again. He once called me the queen of facts. All for good reason. 

"I can be your tree if you want — an ancient sequoia. That was your offer back then. I was wondering… If that tree still stands." 

I'm looking down now, at my feet, unwilling to meet his gaze. He lets go of my arm and uses his right hand to tilt my chin up. I'm staring directly into his eyes now. And I feel like running away but my legs refuse to cooperate. 

He reaches inside his pocket with his left hand and places something smooth and round in my palm. It was a pebble. 

Yes, a pebble. I remember telling him about emperor penguins who look for the perfect smooth pebble to give to their mate in the vast icy deserts of Antarctica. He said he knew about it. Maybe he does a little too well. He's giving me one now.

"If you want...The sequoia still stands." 

-end-

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