White Flower

In another life, we, instead of talking it over coffee and bad singing on the way home, drowned ourselves in bitter bottles of honestly. I would tattoo your name, and you'd scold me how tasteless it was. I'd name one of my kids after you, but you'd rant about some bullshit middle name. In another life, we woke up at dawn and saw the sunrise over the farm. It would be tea and biscuit for breakfast, instead of me looking at headstone.

Because we didn't see death til much, much later. It would be long lasting days of summer, only festive and sunshine. We'd chose boredom over loss, everytime, easy.

Think I should be getting used to the higher count each year, yet I never really realize this is saying that you've been since the count 57. I'm getting older too. Life and death are crazy. You can't really grasp it fully into reality, it's always been a blend with 'what could have been', dreams, hopes, and memories.

I can't tell them exactly what kind of legend you were while you were here. They won't understand. Nobody could. There were points in my life where I didn't believe it either. All I know is this separation broke my heart and I'm still figuring out what and where to put it back together.

I've fought through battles in some stranger places. I've been in fight with myself. Been in a fight with the world. All because I wanted it all, maybe. Or did I really just want to make it difficult? Did I just look for a fight for the hell of it. Was it in the senseless victories, was it in the brokenness of the losses. Did I fight just to keep myself from going down into madness? I couldn't find meanings in the hearts I called home. Was I lurked into the fights, did I find myself amid, or was it there under my feet all along?

Was it a yes instead of a no? Was it "stay" instead of "goodbye"? Maybe it was the one word that sets apart lies from the truth. Maybe that was it all along, or maybe it was the timing that felt so wrong at the rightest time. Maybe it is a crime that I think about it now. Still, it was bewitching. Word I can't remember now. What was it, was it what I actually wanted? Was it the truth I chose to bury all along? Or was it just a play from a long, long, lost script?

It’s his birthday today. I had always wondered what he was like when he was a child. Was he a little silly, funny, tenacious, or mischievous?

Was he ever running free in the field, falling into the mud laughing? Was he a bright child? For that, I am confident. Was the world ever kind to him? Could he cry? What are his regrets? What was he scared of?

How did he grow up? How did he grow old?

All those questions, all the what ifs, the all that could have would have should have, they are all buried with him at 57. Where time suddenly just froze, and it has been five years. Kind of cruel, isn't?

2024 is coming to an end in a few hours. I haven’t had a lot to write this year, and I’m glad that I went out a lot this year, I did some things I could only dream of doing my whole life. I took few leaps of faith. There were also storms, violent ones, but at the same time, I never felt braver to face them.

This place has something else, like river, hills, mountain, and creek I didn't know I would love so much. The struggles felt new and exciting, I found the version of myself that didn't really care how I look in the mirror, and just glad to see the one that looked back at me was with a smile.

they say that things for a reason. That it will, someday, make a sense, and only then you know what's all the agony has been for, and tell you justifiably, in a way, why it chose you. Why you were kept waiting, hoping, and hurting. Why it never feels like fair nor easy.

But why does sometimes light breeze feel like a storm, why does little drizzle feels like thunder, why does the hurt doesn't heal as fast...

it's bewitching, is it not?

we will all pass that time of regrets, eventually. about love, life and everything in between. they don't seem to ever break even, the love you had, the love you received, what's been given and taken away. not everything has to mean something, it is just what it is, and you became sad because you got hurt by the same thing over and over, and wonder why you allow that to happen, just because.

Every May 9th I would try to reach for little pieces of you that are still here, your clothes, sarung, olive perfume, anything. But this year, I'm thousand miles from home, and looking around, there's only me, and there's only so much of you that lives in me.

You should be turning 62 today, the forth birthday I don't celebrate with you, though it feels like decades. Losing someone is losing the track of time. You still feel their warmth long after they're gone.