Dancing the Tango.

Wikepedia defined courtship as traditionally wooing of a female by a male, includes such activity as sending text messages, conversing over the phone, writing each other letters, and sending each other flowers, songs and gifts. Quite obvious, I am talking about human courtship.  This blog entry was prompted by something I said, “hindi ka naman nanliligaw eh.”  Not a question in the end, but a period. 

“Do you have suitors”, he asked.  Do I have suitors?  It depends on how I view it.  I do not have suitors, I have friends.  I do not like having suitors, that is why I would rather see them as friends. Friends first before anything else.  Friends act naturally.  Suitors tend to strut their best foot forward. I do not need the best foot forward strategy. I need something REAL, which includes the not best foot forward kind of thing.  From there, if it will blossom into something beautiful like the equanimity of life, then it can go to the next level which is courtship. 

“Should I expect something”, he further asked.  To expect is like inflicting pain to oneself.  Let the curve balls of life bring you to where it should lead you.  NO expectations.  Just this, if it is meant to happen, it WILL happen.  If it is LOVE or attraction (like the anions & the cations positive attraction where it can’t be helped), it will flourish.  I do not want it to be forced.  It takes time. 

I define courtship like that of a man and a woman dancing TANGO.  It is danced so passionately.  Two bodies becoming one and moving with the music.  The man leading the woman.  At one point, the woman resisiting the man.  Eyes intently staring at each other with only the music to guide them.  Courtship should be this way. 

But how can that be if there was no music to begin with?   

If you’re tangled up, just TANGO on.

Many years & more.

It is that many years and more since I’ve waited by the deathbed of a loved one.  Still, how familiar it feels - as if a version of me has continued to exist, uninterrupted by death.  How different everything might have turned out if by that time I knew how it was to be a Nurse.  Can this be why this incarnation of me persists (the girl keeping vigil, always on the look out) so I can get it right the next time with the people entrusted to my care? 

“I like to hear your voice,” he said in between breaths.  His eyes were closed, but the sense of hearing is the last to go.  I knew he wanted to hear me sound unaffected and happy.  That was the hardest thing, pretending not to be sad when in fact I felt like dying with him.  I held his hand.  Softly at first, but it turned into a grip. I hanged on to him, if only by a grip.  His hands felt cold, not the warmth I used to feel when I was a little girl.  This time, there were no words but I knew it was ALMOST goodbye.

I allowed myself to weep immediately without having to try.  In between guarded sobs, I saw a tear or two fall from his closed eyes.  Sometimes, with the memories of this man that I SO LOVE, I find myself wondering - what happens to people who don’t have hands to hold as they die?  Do they do it more quickly, so as to get it over with?  Or do they linger?  Do they wait to be touched? I lay my head next to his, “I love you Lolo very much.  You can go now.  I’ll be fine!”

A few roses still bloomed somewhere.  He came home to die in the room where I used to sleep smacked right in between my abuelos with only the contented hum of the ancient electric fan.  In his wallet was a picture of me.  He kept it those many years and more.