rainy nights

I stand there, dripping on the front door. Outside, the rain falls violently, an occurrence not quite unknown around the city. It is the second one this November. I look at my muddy shoes, and move slowly, absent-mindedly; I know no one else is in this house.

Taking a few steps to the right, I take off my shoes and leave them on the carpet. I am now in the "living room," as what my former wife used to call it. The carpet lies in the center, its bright colors fading with time and neglect. It now serves as a mere doormat, the sole witness of my unceasing return.

My eldest, Carmen, used to sleep in this sofa in the early afternoon, when the sun pounded on the roof. I can still see her, with mouth slightly open, perhaps calling for the comforting breeze from the rice fields in her sleep.

The sofa groans under my weight, all 220 pounds of it, as I sit down and look at it wistfully.
I look at her baby picture on the end table. That is her on the toilet, doing her thing, with her yaya hovering above. I always used to joke that I would show this picture to any boy who would dare court her. She of the pose while doing the number two. That boy would surely laugh his head off.

I move on to the next picture on the table.

I remember this one well. Wow. It seems so long-ago. My two daughters were about five and six years old when this picture was taken in Magic Splash. They, with their gap-toothed smiles and matching pink and yellow suits, promised solemnly that I would be the only man in their lives. We made a pact that there will be no boyfriends until after college. Otherwise they will stop studying.

How high my expectations were.

I shake my head, and cross the "room" slowly towards the kitchen. If I recall correctly, my youngest, Ella had a boyfriend in high school. Her diary, which I found beneath old notebooks, held all the details. I didn’t tell her how I found out, of course, so she kept on lying and lying to my face. It was only when I was on my way to the principal’s office to withdraw her from school that she tearfully apologized. She said that it was only a boyfriend through text, but I knew better. I let it pass, and we conveniently forgot about it.

Yes, well, she is married now and has four little kids that I never see. My youngest. Married right after college. She broke my heart. She was my favorite. She always cooked for me in the middle of the night when I got hungry. She was the only one who hugged me when Carmen and Mother did not.

Sighing, I put some hot water in a pan, and prepare the pack of Maggi. This is my dinner. If my former friends and supporters could see me now, they would not believe it. I, who went to different countries with the governor, and gave tracts of land to the poor, am now down to my last pack of pancit canton. They would not believe this.

But then, then this is life, isn’t it? Sometimes, you’re down. But if you’re lucky, you’re up there, feeling alive on top of everything else, getting that adrenaline rush that comes from living, being in control, eating, going places.

Eating. Right. I look at my heft as I stir my canton, and put it in a bowl.

As I sit down in the small dining area (we have a bigger one which is long unused for the obvious reasons), I remember Carmen sitting in front of me on the rare occasions she came home from college.

She told me once I was her idol. She loved watching me eat. Her eyes followed every slice of pork and dip of sauce and spoonful of rice. She loved going with me when I sold land or collected rent. She loved watching me kid around with people I did not know. She said I could be left anywhere, and I would find a friend.

How ironic. The rain beats on my roof as I mechanically put noodles in my mouth.

I am sad.
I am lonely.
I am scared.
I am tired.
I am disillusioned.
I want to cry but I can't.
I want to talk about it but I can't.
I want to ask for help but I can't.
I never felt so tired of my life.
I never used to want to die.
I never used to want to die.

I sigh deeply. I used to laugh so big, so deep. Perhaps the silence overwhelms it now.

How tired I am.

With my dinner finished, I knew it was time for my Sunday-after-dinner-pills. I walk towards my former wife’s bedroom on the first floor (I cannot go to my original room upstairs because of my arthritis) carrying a glass of water. I hear the crack of thunder. I walk faster to the room, and then shut the door.

When people get to be a certain age, there will always be regrets for the broken promises and broken dreams. They begin the first three decades of their lives working towards something, and for the next three, most end up simply somewhere in between. The dreams are only halfway reached, with stretched fingers, as they go about the tediousness of reality.
I never thought this is how I would end up in my sunset years, in this room, looking back at my life, wondering if I had done the right thing with every choice I made.

My family started unraveling on a night like this.

I closed my eyes, and remembered how it had been raining so hard that the electricity was down, and all we had left was one candle. I could see the supple yellow light on their faces. It dawned on me how I no longer understood them. They became their mother’s daughters, and how they loathed me.

The medicine case dug into my palm as I clenched it. I opened the little flap, and shook out pills unto my trembling hand.

One, two, three, five. I swallowed the set, and drank some water.

There are times I do not want to come home to this house. Because when I do, the truth will just hit me again; my family is broken beyond repair, and I cannot do anything about it.

Ten. Fifteen. The pills were becoming harder and harder to keep down. Eighteen, twenty. I wanted to throw up but I didn’t.

Over the years, I knew that deep inside, something is decaying little by little, a hope perhaps that everything will go back to the way it is, that everything will lead back to a happy ending. I do not know why I do this.

Now, it has pretty much been blown away, like the ashes of a family portrait withering in the wind.

The phone rings out of the blue, and it takes me a few seconds to notice. I pick it up drowsily, weakly. It was getting cold.

It is Ella. "I love you Daddy," she says, feeding my hungry soul. "Merry Christmas!" There is a lot of noise in the background; I could hear her smiling.

I could not reply.