Inconsolable

I dropped you off to work about ten minutes ago, and for two whole minutes now I have been inconsolable. I blink repeatedly, forcing the reds, yellows, and greens back into focus.

Twenty-two years. All of them you spent in one company. Your connections across Luzon were unquestionable. Ask the folks at the Head Office and however many regional branches - it didn't matter; they all knew your name.

Prestige and competence is one thing, but the friendships you made were more precious. The antics you and your co-workers would pull in the office: staring down little children when their parents weren't looking, sending the messengers to the market nearby to buy fresh seafood to fry for lunchtime, cracking jokes here and there, and counting down the days until Irma's retirement because damnit, she doesn't have to be so cranky all the time.

I love your stories. Your eyes light up, and your voice gets louder. It's like you're transplanting me and you back to that space and time.

But I hate your stories, too. As much as I love seeing your face become animated in a story-telling frenzy, I stop halfway because I know you always tell your stories in the past tense.

Now when you talk about work, you revisit the long, long year when you were unemployed. You talk about the many, many companies you walked in and out of. The Pilipina women who mistreated you, were insecure of you, and spoke ill of you to your superiors. The age difference between you and your co-workers. The frustration you build up in your chest when you see young people without college degrees talking over your head, disregarding your Accounting degree and years of experience. The loneliness. The lunches you took by yourself facing the blank wall. The embarrassing moment when your co-worker handed you his iPhone to take a picture, but you didn't know how. The constant defending and proving yourself, just because English isn't your first language.

When you tell your stories, you always tell them in two separate batches. The happy ones, and the ones that you can only complain about. They're always separate, but I see the thread that ties them together. It's an unspoken despair that you'll never speak about because you want me to think you're okay.

Once again, I am inconsolable. I feel a heaviness that I know will pass but will never really go away. Not unless we leave.

Mom, I love you. I promise to bring you back home.

For her, tulips in mid-bloom
Like from thirty-something years ago
When he first coaxed that smile.

Extremely Loud and Not At All Close

Sometimes I wonder why I even bother with these novel-to-movie adaptations. I always end up shaking my head at the end of the movie, sometimes muttering to myself (or to others) that, "The book was better."

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close is a very important novel to me because it made me believe in contemporary fiction. After getting hooked on HP, there was a very snooty, immature phase in my life when I would refuse to read anything else because nothing came close to Harry Potter.

JSF's novel is pure emotion. It's tragic, beautiful, and wise in both plot and style. The movie is nothing but 2.5 hours (yes, 2.5 hours) of the 9-year-old protagonist essentially narrating the novel.

Not that Oskar shouldn't be granted that credibility. What I realize, though, is that his ramblings, realizations, and witty comments aren't translatable to spoken word. They're better off left in his own head.