Waiting No More

    It was hard to open his eyes; the effort to unglue his top lids from the bottom, too exhausting. So, he gave that up, focusing instead on the pictures in his mind, and absorbing light that filtered through his paper thin eyelids.




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    His favorite time was the moment before eventual sleep, that hazy, ethereal few minutes when he stood balancing between sleep and wakefulness. As the days melted into weeks and weeks turned to months, the memories of his youth dissipated. Instead, he kept his eyelids closed, for the most beautiful picture remained behind his lids.

    …

    Every so often, Celestino would join the other men and head into the main village square. There was not much but a cluster of shops, and a few sold bottles of rum. The first time he saw the bottle from which he had taken his first swallows, he actually felt his stomach lurch. The memories of the hot sun beating down on him, the incredible dizzy sensations that led to him waking to a starry night laid over a patch of sharp, dry and itchy sugarcane thrash. He reached for the colder bottles of beer instead, sipping slowly on the yeasty beverage, preferring its taste to that of the sharp, acrid rum.

    When he was around eighteen, he reached across the counter to pay for a beer, the only one he would indulge in for that night, and instead of the broad, hardened hands of the old shopkeeper, he encountered soft, small hands. As his gaze travelled from the counter where the money was placed, it moved further up to find the face of a young girl, no more than sixteen.

    She wore a nice, plain dress made of a shiny, green material. The only ornament on it was a ruffle around the neckline edged in lace. Her hair, pitch black, fell down a perfectly straight part, like sheets down either side of her face – a face that was round, full, and held a smile of honesty and kindness. He smiled back without even thinking, his hand still holding hers.

    She drew back first, and she turned with an embarrassed smile to get him his change. That was it really; a look and hands touching, but it stayed with him for the rest of that evening.

    …

    It took another year for him to do anything more than smile in passing. He had worked long enough to have savings in his account but he still felt there was much more to do and many years to go before he could make any move towards permanence.

    There was the lack of a house, for instance. At some point, young men were expected to turn responsible, and around the age of 20, property was acquired, followed by a home on the property. Often, a father would step in and help, providing property, and the young man would build with his money. For that matter, they worked for many years, starting a savings account early in life, working from the moment they could leave school, farming, selling produce, taking the big amounts of money and transforming it into a home. Often, a young man and his family could come up with $15,000 or $20,000 from a few acres of land, with one excellent crop. On the side, there would be animals raised for meat, a separate vegetable plot, and so much more.

    The way a home was built also took the help of friends and family. He had no family other than the people he had spent the last few years with. Yes, the man in charge was his father, but he was father to several girls and another son (in school) – he didn’t expect much.

    Such was his frame of mind when, during a routine cattle round-up, his father brought the subject up.

    “Tengo un pedazo de terreno para mostrarte.” I have a piece of land to show you.

    …

    He stirred in the bed that he lay in…the land that his house, his bed was on…it was the home that became his home…his eyes were still glued shut. Behind it, the most beautiful images played, and their pull was stronger than the physical that awaited him. The pain and aches remained, and he drifted off again…

    The moment that the roof went on, over the simple four room building that would eventually be his dwelling, he finally smiled in relief.

    …

    Asking for her hand, after the many months of snatched smiles, a few words of kindness (mostly from her), and the eventual holding of hands across a counter that lingered far longer than it took to give change, he found the courage to speak to her father.

    It was not an encouraging conversation. He demanded many things, mostly, a home to send his daughter to – an idea of permanence and a future that boded well for her. He promised to work towards it, seeking an arrangement that would mean she would be compromised to him, while he compromised to himself and her father that he would move upwards only to ensure that she would be his wife.

    …

    The day the house was finished, he rode his horse into the village. The house was just outside of the main community, but close enough for a brisk walk. With his horse hitched to the post outside the shop, he walked in looking for her father. She was at the counter, smile ever at the ready. He asked for her father, and he came from the house at the back of the shop. Once again, he listened, and he had questions – but Celestino had answers too.

    …

    Julia bathed and cared for the old man who lay in his bed, eyes closed, almost at death’s door, yet refusing to give in. She held his hand when she found the time to sit at his side, hoping that perhaps the touch would encourage him for a final farewell. Armando (his son) joined her some evenings, often, staying long after she had gotten up to tend to the stove. Often he sat past supper, watching the man who remained in bed, the sad remains of the vibrant person who had filled his life for all those years. The man who had lived so many adventures.

    There was the car, which would often be piled full of people, and food, and the long rides deep into the mountains where rivers ran icy cold, and the waterfalls roared all around. His mother, short and plump, had always found herself scrambling behind them all, complaining about the physical exertion expected of her, but always smiling and happy when they had reached the bottom of a ravine, or the top of a hill. He saw his wife, and the way she devoted his life to caring for his family, and he thought of his mother, that wonderful person who always took a backseat to everyone else, but remained a warm memory long after she was gone.

    …

    Their first baby had died only a few minutes after being born. He had a thick patch of curly black hair, and his eyes never opened. He had emitted one small mewling cry, before his breath cut off, and he never awoke again. Their second son emitted lusty cries from birth until he turned one year old. He had his jaunt with gold panning, he had his moments climbing sapodilla trees for chicle, but he always came home, and he always brought his money home to feed his family. The years passed, and he came back home to tending cattle, farming his land and growing crops.

    …

    She had started off with a stomachache. There was no remedy, not even the bush doctor in the village could prescribe enough teas, baths or unguents to ease the pain. She finally took to her bed when the pain became crippling. He found himself pulling away from the house, where death loomed ever so close. He rode his horse before the sun sent its first rays out over the mountains, preferring not to be around. She had her sisters, and her father and mother, always constantly keeping her company, soothing her brow, when nothing else seemed to take away the pain.

    …

    She died on a Sunday, one final scream wrenched out of her when the pain finally became unbearable. He was home, fiddling around in the kitchen, when her cries had started, and he had been beside her when the final moment came. Her fingernails had dug into his palm, her pain etched deep into the wrinkles that had covered her once warm, kind face. When she let out her final scream, he had cried out too – unable to take away her pain and unable to bear the horror of it all.

    …

    Aunts, cousins and friends had taken over, and he let them.

    …The car came soon after, and he drove places where he had wanted to go – but horses had tired easily. With the roar of an engine and four wheels to take him places, he stayed away, burying his pain in the tire tracks as dust blew behind him.

    …

    Eventually, he had to stop, and when he did, he stayed home, finding some semblance of rhythm that would take him through the remaining years before Armando began his life. There were moments when he drove off, but he came back before sundown.

    …

    The bright spots behind his eyelids grew whiter and brighter. There was an outline waiting for him. Sometimes, he dreamt of her, the lines of pain and death gone from her round, kind face. Instead, he saw her smiling, across the counter that fateful first day. She never came close to him, staying off in the distance, only patience etched on her face this time, as if she could wait forever for him.

    …

    His breath caught, and his joints stiffened further. His grandchildren gathered around him, hugging him as if his frailty was no longer an issue. Armando held his hand, thinking of his little sister who was so far away, in a country that valued work above all else. He thought of his mother waiting for his father. The problems he had had with him, when his mother had died, his abandonment, they had been hard for the first few months. He finally understood, when he began spending time with Julia, when he married her, when she had given him his first child. He understood, and that is why he stayed with his father those last moments.

    …

    She finally drew close to him, and in the light he saw her as she was just before the final few months. Her hair had a few streaks of grey, and the wrinkles around her eyes were faint. Her smile was the same, kind and sweet. She was wearing the same dress she had been wearing the day they had met across the shop counter. She held out her hands to him, soft and pliable, and he held them in his. The tug was not one bit painful, instead, he felt that warmth and comfort of finally being home. His joints did not ache, his body felt free – he followed her, never looking back.

    …

    There would be no more mornings, no more sunshines, no more rain falling on the roof. There would be no sitting under the tree, nor joyrides in a car whose carcass was being taken over by vines in the backyard. The cows and bulls would continue chewing contentedly, horses would be ridden to a roaring gallop. But as for the pain, there would be no more.

    He was finally home, where he belonged.





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