Literary: Time Stays

4/28/2021 07:07:00 PM Media Center 0 Comments

When you live in the city, you become more and more attuned to the fact that time is always moving, or rather, that time is always there. Each person you sit next to in a bus has pages upon pages of deadlines that dictate things like when they will pass Senior High or if they will make it during a life-or-death surgical procedure.

Time ticks with every footstep that runs along with its beat. From watches to clocks, up to the bags under people's eyes—time is ever-present. That's why so many people in the city have regrets. Time is not merciful. It is objective.

Painfully so.

It does not care if you have said goodbye or held his hand last. Time will drag you politely by the throat and remind you that you only have a say in a moment—not in a lifetime.

That has been my mantra ever since I stopped putting Polaroids in my old photobook and blabbering about the different cats in our neighborhood at family dinners. You have to stay by time's side and look straight ahead to keep your wits about you. Time is not there to reminisce and reevaluate. It is there to make you move.

And as I walk around our old ancestral home a handful of times, I can safely say that the province is… a bit slower.

“Emma, dear. Did you lose something? I'm getting dizzy from watching you loop around the house like some kind of guard dog.” That’s my mother. Even without the “dear,” I know that the person currently concerned with my life choices is my mom—the low, whispery voice gives it away immediately.

“Mom, why… did you really accept dad's invitation? He hasn’t reached out to us for fourteen years now. The last time I saw him was when I was nine. Mom, I’m 23 now.”

Turning to my side, I see a woman in her late forties. Despite having dyed her hair black fairly recently, you can see traces of white peeking through. With the sun shining on her face, you can see wrinkles starting to show on her forehead and a bit on her cheeks. She is beautiful, despite the years of single parenting that are starting to show on her face. Her hair frames her face perfectly like some sort of halo. Her cheeks accentuate both her round eyes and plump lips. Her petite nose adds to her general adorableness. Time loves her. She is a testament to how time’s passing can help a rose bloom rather than wilt.

I wish every day to be like her.

And now, she chuckles as the honey of the setting sun fawns over her grace. There is a familiar hint of sadness in her eyes. It’s faint, though, and she’s somehow at peace with it.

“Blunt as ever,” she says with a laugh. “Dear, your dad is leaving for the States in a week and will probably stay there with your Aunt Marissa and Isha,” she continues, her voice almost breaking at the mention of my father's new family. Her eyes move like they're trying to find the right words. Maybe if she looks hard enough, she’ll be able to find a lie that can avoid the truth.

“It'll be the last time we'll see him, huh.” I would like to say I said that as neutrally as possible. But looking at my mother's wide eyes, I guess it was more pointed than I'd hoped.

A Mustang pulls up on the front porch. Fourteen years later, and the car hasn't changed a bit. But the man that steps out of the car has. Forget about his new ring. Forget about him having longer hair that seems more well-gelled. Forget about the way he tiptoes so unsurely, as if he doesn't know how to approach his first family. Forget about how he puts his hands in his pockets, not knowing what to do with them. This man bears no hugs to greet the girl who used to wait for him to get home, every five o’clock in the afternoon. Forget that. I don't know him and I probably won't try to, either.

I only came here for my mother, not the man who left us for the opportunity of getting his golden years back. Not the man who left us for his first love. Not the man who left his first daughter.

“Long time no see, Emy.” He greets me, adding a sigh at the end as he labors out the name. It’s like he hasn’t said it in years. Well, he hasn’t. He really hasn’t. And knowing that feels like someone is filling up my lungs with tar.

He tried to call me “Emy” like he didn’t leave us fourteen years ago. He tried to pretend like everything was fine, like he didn’t disappear from our lives without a single trace. He’s trying to walk back into our lives one last time, thinking I’ll forgive him—thinking I’ll make the stupid mistake of forgetting everything just because he called me “Emy.” Saying a nickname won’t erase the past.

My vision starts to blur and I feel my legs sway. This is what happens when you try to bypass the laws of time. This is what happens when you try to change the cogs of the grandfather clock. It stops ticking.

And like anyone trying to make up for wasted time, I run. I run to match the pace of the ticking time bomb inside of me and make a break for our old attic. No thoughts. Just the instinct of an eight-year-old kid trying to escape the sounds of screams and why’s.

“Emy!”

I close the door with a loud bang. In my panicked state, my eyes dart around and land on the old latch of the attic door still intact. Hastily, I fumble with the rusted metal and lock it from the inside. Still, my mind has one thought: I need to block the door.

Time is escaping from my grasp as their footsteps and pleas get louder. Old furniture, dollhouses, boxes, and books get moved in rapid succession. Finally, a mountain of old memories and forgotten knick-knacks barricade the door.

A few minutes pass—the doorknob jostles, accompanied by the voices from outside. The door can only creak with the weight behind it. And so, I stay safe in the confines of this dusty attic. Alone.

Then, it is quiet. The air goes still. So very still.

My shoulders sink, and it feels like time's hands are resting on my shoulders—gently urging me to move, as I am the only one who can stop this standstill. It doesn’t help, though; it just makes me fidget a bit more with each step shakier and closer to the wall of the other side of the room. It feels as if time is taking a step backwards along with me.

I am not in the city anymore, a place where time was a one-lane tunnel with only one exit. I am no longer following the ticking of the clock. In the attic of my old house, I am leading Father Time to accompany me in my downward spiral.

As I try to find a wall to stabilize my body against, the back of my foot hits something pointy. Squinting, I crouch down and feel something with a leathery exterior, with peels from what I could guess are mouse bites and old age. A brass plaque is in the center of it: “My Memory Book: Emy :D.” The “Emy” is written in permanent marker and is neater compared to the blue smiley face next to it.

I just stare at the photobook for what feels like a lifetime. From the silence of the room, I can hear the faint pacing of footsteps outside. But like in some sort of twisted joke by the almighty hourglass in the sky, I don’t think I can hear my own heartbeat. It honestly feels like I’m dead. Despite this, time and my itch for a distraction beckon me to open a portal to a life different from mine.

One flip from my shaking fingers and I am greeted by a photo with a little girl covering half the lens. Spots of pink icing are on her nose, lips, and chin. Her tongue is sticking out as she fumbles with the camera that took the picture I’m looking at now. Behind her are a man and woman, both probably in their early thirties. Despite the photo being blurry, I can make out what looks like a cake fight as the man’s face is fully covered in frosting. The woman is about to make another attack with a cake slice. Beneath the photo, the words “Happy 6th Birthday, Emy! Mom and I are proud of you <3.” are written in red pen in the same handwriting seen in the plaque on the cover. Beside it is a sticky note, explaining how half of the cake was used for an impromptu food fight instigated by the man in the picture. It is short, and the handwriting is crude, but I know that the person who wrote it poured into detailing the event to the best of their ability.

The photobook is full of these candid moments where the little girl scrambled to get the camera because something exciting or funny happened. The sticky notes are always beside the photos explaining the events that followed these moments.

I land on the last page, and it just shows the little girl and the man on what they didn’t know would be the last Father’s Day they’d spend together before their relationship, just like the picture, would be left to dust.

Finally, the tears start to pour out. So many things have changed—but nothing has changed for the better. I miss the times where writing more than one sentence in my journal didn’t feel like repeatedly ramming myself into the wall. I miss taking pictures of the most absurd things. I miss when I could still look at the past and not feel bitter or left behind. I miss when my family was still complete. I miss the little smiling girl in the picture.

Sobs rack through my body, and each minute I feel like I’m about to combust. I clutch the photobook tighter as if it’s the only thing keeping me together—the only source of comfort in this frozen picture of an era that didn’t have a sticky note to explain it. There are no notes of encouragement from Mom or Dad, just the hands of time gently placed on my shoulders. I try to shrug the feeling off. I don’t care if my hands do nothing against the limbs of something as abstract as time. I just want it to stop.

The window in the attic starts to budge. In an instant, I'm face-to-face with my past, teary-eyed and bruised. He climbs through the window and rushes to tackle me in a hug. It somehow manages to feel like the ones he gave before. Yet instead of welcoming him home, it's to say sorry in his last goodbye. I shake even more, my body urging me to break from the hold.

My father coos softly, rubbing the back of my head. “I... remember fighting with someone for that journal. I don’t remember how but you already know how I get into the most stupid things. Like... climbing the side of the house, but at least I’m here now,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“I'm really sorry. I thought that the damage had been done and I couldn't fix our family anymore. I thought you wouldn’t want to see my face ever again.” My father struggles through every word, his breath labored through the tears as we hug. He tightens the hug before pulling away and sits across me with his left hand on mine. Due to instinct, I squirm a bit from the touch. As much as I need someone to hold me right now, the man in front of me, ironically, looks edited compared to the pictures in the photobook. He pulls his hand away. There, I see eyes clouded in years of confusion and hopelessness. He's scared of the past, too.

“I've only recently realized that I always had the time to explain and ask for forgiveness. And I wanted to do it before it was too late. I wanted to be better and I knew that time was on my side, even if it was only for a short while.” As my father speaks, I am reminded of why his absence broke me so much in the first place. His voice is warm and sincere, even when he first left me and mom. He feels like one of those old sundae parlors or bakeries near the town church—sweet and full of wonder. He is a welcoming dawn. Yet, he sits here right in front of me, so small against the moonlight that shines through the window.

“Well, maybe if you had come fourteen years earlier, you could have apologized to the little girl you wronged.” Despite my eyelids starting to droop, I look at my father dead in the eyes. “I am not ‘Emy’ anymore. That girl is long gone and her relationship with her father left with her.” As my voice cracks and becomes airier, my shaking fingers put the photobook down and shove it towards my father. I pass to him the memories of another girl as a way to show him that I can't redeem this relationship. I am merely a watcher—incapable of feeling what once was.

My father stares at me then back at the book. He opens the photobook and flips through the pages, landing on a picture of an awards ceremony. It shows the little girl holding a “The Most Creative” award. She did like taking pictures.

“That's you. And that's me.” He points at the girl and the man shaking hands with the principal. He flips the page again and points out another picture. “That's you. And that's me. That's us.” And he repeats it again. And again. And again. Until he reaches the Father's Day picture. My father looks at me, tears in his eyes. He points to the pictures, then to himself and me. “That's you and me.”

“I know we've grown away from each other. But the ‘Emy’ you think you've lost is still there. You never changed yourself because you wanted to. You changed because of me and my mistakes. You're just trying to move on without the missing pieces that I stole. And that's not right.” My father's voice gets louder but it does not get more stable. Instead, it warbles even more with each “you” he cries.

“Then how can I get ‘me’ back? How can I get little Emy and her father going to the sundae parlor back? How can I get little Emy and her father chasing each other around the backyard during Saturdays back? How can I get little Emy with her father getting donuts for mom after school back? How can I get Emy and her dad back?” I shout, each question louder than the last. My despair gives my voice renewed strength before I shrink back into my sorry state.

“I'm here now. And I promise I will stay. I was scared, too. I thought I also lost my past self and trying to look for it would just be a waste of everyone else's energy. But that meant I forgot about everything my past self held dear. That meant... I forgot Emy. And I knew Emy was there and I needed to be there for her. Do you know why I knew Emy was still there?” My father asks as he nudges ever so slightly closer to me.

“Why?” I reply.

“Because Emy has always been my daughter. You will always be my daughter. No matter how much I think I've changed. No matter how much I run away from the past. She's there, broken because of me—and if I try to look for her old father, she's free to be her old self again.” He answers without any hesitation. He didn't mess up his words. There were no cracks or moments of silence. He is sure of his answer and he is going to make everyone believe in it. He knows he's in the wrong and he is not afraid to own up to it.

“You say that, but will you actually stay? Aren't you leaving for America next week?” I don't look up to him. I feel a certain sense of déjà vu. Different question yet the same feeling of broken promises and being left alone in the dark.

“I actually talked to your Aunt Marissa about it and if you would allow me, I could stay here in the Philippines until you graduate and get settled into a job. It's your last year of college before you get your bachelor's degree, after all. Isha thinks it's a good idea, too! I'll be sure to call her every day. Maybe, we can have family day calls once things get better. But know that it's up to you.” My father offers me a sad smile, still understanding the possibility of my rejection. He's not open by any means but he seems to know that boundaries need to be respected.

I sit there in silence, looking at my father. His eyes have a faint twinkle though they seem to be drooping as well. He has his hands on his lap and his feet are wiggling a bit. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s eager, exhausted, or both. Probably both. Tired but hopeful. Maybe he didn’t change that much at all.

I space out; time's hands are still on my shoulders, but rather than urging me to move, it stays there to somewhat comfort me. I feel the most at ease right now since we arrived in the province. It could be because my photobook has somehow found its way to my father's lap again. It could be me finally having the space to look around the old attic. It could be my dad saying sorry.

I'm not shaking that much right now—it's mostly just my fingers. I feel nauseous, and my head is pounding at random intervals. But for the most part, I don't feel like running away. I have the time to think because time is here, right beside me. It stays.

And maybe, other people can stay as well. Maybe, there is time for things to be better.

"We can try. Promise me you'll try, or else I won't forgive you." I look up to my dad and I see him straighten his back. He smiles—the first time I've seen him smile in fourteen years. He opens his arms and I take the invitation.

It will probably take long before I can properly forgive him, but like I said, "We can try." And as my father and I hug, I feel like this a step in the right direction.

Perhaps, Dad is right about the "old us" still being there. Perhaps, we can meet them fully in time. Seeing glimpses of them already in this moment, I feel hopeful.

In the attic, it feels like nothing’s changed except for a few sobs and hiccups here and there—memorabilia of a time found through mending and forgiveness. The girl and her father are still there. They had only been broken down and withered by time. And I now understand that the nature of time allows things like the relationship of the little girl and her father to be fixed. Because time stays, and it will always change.

The people we love stay the same. We stay the same. We only get buried in the dunes of Father Time. And with the ever-changing landscape of the clocks of the universe, there will always be a chance to dig up our old selves again. The minutes that pass shouldn’t be a point of stress and constraint, but instead, a point of betterment and evolution. Time will change around you, and will always leave a chance for self-discovery or self-betterment.

There will always be time to fix what has been broken, and to retrieve what has been lost. Because time stays, and it will always change.

After a few minutes, my father and I slowly stand up and remove the barricades in front of the attic door, poking fun at some of the relics we stumble across. Holding hands, we open the door and find my mother calmly wiping her tears with her hands. I move from my father’s side and gently wipe my mother’s tears. The faint sadness in her eyes is overwhelmed with pride and relief as she brings my hands to her cheeks. I lay my head on her shoulder while my dad pulls us into a hug. We stay like that until we decide it’s time for dinner.

At the dinner table, I blabber about nonsensical things, like the kittens I saw while walking around the house. Suddenly, my father starts crying, saying he got barbecue sauce on a bruised elbow that apparently got caught in a wire while he was climbing up the house a while ago. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to take a photo. Besides, the old photobook had a few pages to spare.

I catch a glance in the mirror, and I see my mother’s eyes in me. It dawns upon me that maybe she is time’s rose because she embraces the past as much as she does the present. Maybe I have always been loved by time, and it only took me looking back to realize.

Because time stays. And with every iteration, it bears guidance to those who traverse the sand dunes of the universal hourglass.