April 23, 2020
Pathway Beyond the Gosseline River
There is a place on this island of mine, where a mountain gently touches the sky—Mont Fleuri. Mont Fleuri, he would call it. A flowered mountain. I am not sure if it was a name he had concocted in his wannabe-poetic mind or the actual name of the place. Nonetheless, I never saw any flowers on that stupid mountain of his— just some rocky footpaths leading to nowhere, unfriendly cacti, thorny shrubs, slippery stones, little houses here and there, and boulders, lots of them. And a lemon tree nested at the bottom of the mountain.
"Let's go to Mont Fleuri," he would often say to me in the early afternoon as my friends gathered for a game of cards, or soccer. And I would go against my will, grumpy as ever— as grumpy as a teenager can afford to be without crossing his elders.
“Go get some lemons,” he would say to me when we got there. “Go on now! We will make some lemon juice with honey— It will cure your cold, your cough, and possibly your grumpiness.”
His little farm, oddly warped around the foothills of the mountain, was home to many cows! You’ve got to feed them every day! Stupid cows! Stupid fucking cows and pigs and chickens, set out to ruin my joy and steal my youthful years from me. I particularly hated the chickens. They stank! And to make matters worse, the entire farm was far beyond the Gosseline River! Dirty river! Dry river at times! Raging river at times!
One day, by some miracle, I escaped the torturous mooing of cows and the oinking of pigs. I left for the United States of America to chase dreams I did not know I had. I left and he stayed, with his stupid cows, and pigs, and chickens. He spent years awaiting my return and I spent years wrestling with a language that was not mine, fumbling incoherent thoughts, wishing I could run back across burned bridges, and setting some new bridges ablaze. I grew angry, I grew resentful, I grew homesick so I went back home. I went back to visit him, and his mountain, and his cows. I went back to look for a compass I did not know I needed.
“Let’s go to Mont Fleuri,” he said to me as soon as I got back.
“Sure, Dad. Why not?” I replied.
Why not? The stupid mountain damn near raised me, the least I could do was pay my respects the cows, I suppose. We grabbed our old bicycles and pedaled away. We pedaled away and he talked, nonstop. I could see the naked peak of the mountain from a distance, still without any flowers. But there was this damned river between us and the farm—The Gosseline river, brownish raging floods, roaring, dragging branches, lugs, and rocks.
“We have got to cross the river; we have to feed the cows, the pigs and the chickens,” he said to me nonchalantly.
Cross the river? Is he insane?
“Dad! Are you insane. It’s a flooding river for fuck’s sake!” I said to him. The years spent overseas must have tricked me into thinking I could address him in such a tone. He looked me in the eyes and I felt the wrath of ten thousand gods piercing my skin.
“You can cross with me or you can go back home. I am crossing this river with or without you, and I am feeding the cows, and the pigs, and the chickens,” he said. A stubborn fool, that what he was.
“Fucking Hell!” I said as I removed my shoes and rolled my pants up to my thighs. We tiptoed around rocks and floating lugs. We crossed as safely as we could, then we took the narrow little pathway beyond the Gosseline river.
“Go on now! Go get some lemons,” he said
“Lemons? What about the cows, and the pigs, Dad?” I asked
“There are no cows, no pigs. no chickens either. I sold them all after you left.”
“Fuck, Dad! Then why are we here? Why have we crossed this stupid flooding river? You want to die over some lemons?”
“I do not want to die,” he said. “But If dying is what it takes to know that, in this world of pain and tears, you will not falter in the face obstacles, then so be it!”
October 14, 2019
Withdrawal, A Necessary Evil
It really does not take much for the heart to grow fond of someone.
I made a hackneyed joke and she giggled, almost spitting out her strawberry bubble tea. There we were, unsuspecting lovers-to-be, enjoying a few smiles, half-a-laugh and a short walk down a semi-crowded New York City sidewalk. The soothing sunlight of early summer reminded us of the warmth of love. We strolled away, hand in hand. I landed a timid kiss on her cheeks, then her lips. "I don't normally kiss on first dates," she whispered. And more timid kisses followed. We stopped to catch our breath. We looked into each other's eyes, wondering whether we shared common goals, common dreams of happy kids running through our backyard.
And of course, New York City being what is, one can only enjoy pleasant moments for a moment. An Uber pulled up and I watched her disappear behind the tinted windows of a dark grey Lincoln. I wondered if I would see her again. She wondered the same. I knew that because she messaged me only seconds after the taxi took her away from my saddened sight.
The very next day, she was in my arms again, vulnerable but free. I held her close to my chest and let her feel every heartthrob so she could understand the passion she had awoken in me. She smiled.
Moments turned into hours and hours turned into days. And days turned into nightmarish weeks trapped in a vicious cycle of pain and half-joys. She pieced my heart together every morning just to shatter it again by sundown. The more she pushed me away— knowingly or unknowingly— the quicker I ran back to her. Every day, I woke up outraged by her half-truths. Yet, by the time the sun reached its zenith, I craved her presence more than I craved the air I breathed. I tried all I could to break the cycle, but my feelings were caught in a loop. I accepted my fate and convinced myself that maybe that’s what true love was about: enduring it all and sticking by her side no matter what. I overlooked things that no man overlooks. Still, happiness eluded me.
One day, a good friend of mine called me. He was frantic, disconcerted, at loss of words. He wanted my help. He wanted my advice on a matter of the utmost importance.
“Bro. I really don’t know what to do! I can’t stop! I have tried everything, but I can't stop! please help me!” he said.
Once again, he had gambled away his rent money. And once again, I wrote him a check to get him out of the mess in which he had found himself. I probably saved his marriage that day— like I did the year prior, and the year before that. My good friend thanked me and left. I grabbed a cold brew from my fridge and sat by my window. While there, the most beautiful thing happened to me. I stared into the foggy window, caught a reflection of myself smiling, and it dawned on me that was no better than my friend. I was an addict.
I was addicted to gratitude. I lived for the urge to fix what appeared broken, and I craved the sense of pride that always took roots within me whenever I saw gratitude on people's face. I was addicted to the smile on her face.
Love only played a very little part in me pouring my all into her. She had stopped being a lover long ago because lovers don’t hurt each other. She had become a pernicious habit; her surname was slow death. With my cold brew in hands, I acknowledged a truth that I had spent months running from: the only way out of an addiction is through withdrawal.
