Burulakaw

illustration by Maku Felix on Facebook and Instagram

 

The messengers come like the stars.

I sit by the well and I wait for them to come. I know the legends, how the small women, messengers all would come forth and light the path to their destination. They had hair like a flame and would fly like a shooting star.

Lola told me about them when I was young, how they would deliver messages from and to the different diwatas. She said that no matter where their message would take them, they would go, for that was the only duty that they knew.

Through it all I can only think of her, how her beautiful life was cut short by circumstance. How she made me feel like no one else ever could, or ever has since. I let regret envelop me like a blanket, warming me through this chill summer night.

My tears flow, each drop a different memory I have of her. The way she looked, the way she smiled, the ideas she would have about the future, all draining out of me, leaving me feeling weak and empty.

My friends think I’m crazy for doing this, but there’s no other way. I could never tell her when she was alive, and I refuse to believe that it’s too late. It will never be too late to tell someone you love them.

So here I sit, next to the well, waiting for the messengers to come like shooting stars, hoping they will grant my one request.

I see a light from inside the well and my heart stops, the small women are finally here. Until I look closer and see that it’s only a firefly.

I feel crushed, but I keep my resolve. I will wait as long as I have to until one of the messengers shows herself.

I breathe and think to myself it’s the least I could do for someone I love.

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