F.

Park

Whether by chance, or just one of those moments when out of her daily routine, Maria stops and
gazes at the park just few blocks away from where she lives. It is an old park situated at the
center of the city. The grasses have grown high and the wooden benches have been destroyed
either by some young men or by the harsh whips of wind. In the morning, the park is nothing but
a blot in a picturesque city. It is different at night, though. It is as if it keeps its dignity hidden in
the darkness, where only the night sky witnesses the glory it boasts amidst the vast plexus of the
city. Maria gazes to the farthest bench and wonders how it is to spend the night sitting alone in a
bench with a flickering lamppost just above.

She sits in wooden bench and smells a whiff of dried mahogany leaves, dank from the drizzle
brought by the monsoon wind. She breathes in as night air touches her skin. She shivers and
remembers the time she watched a local String Quartet perform in their plaza with her mom.
The wind dances gracefully to a concerto of Mozart, she muses. Suddenly all the sounds are in
harmony- leaves rustling, wind blowing, vehicles screeching as people rush home. She shudders
as she listens. Somewhere, a child weeps as her drunken father lashes her to death. She weeps
and she blames her mother. She blames God. Later tonight, she’ll pack her things, and while her
father sleeps, she’ll creep silently out of their house.

Maria closes her eyes as she leans her head back. It’s the curtain. I should change the curtain.
Beneath her eyelids she feels the incandescent lamp gazing at her as it flickers. She opens her
eyes and ponders. No, I should buy a carpet instead. what color, it doesn’t matter. I need to
cover the floor. This morning she discovered how her floor has accumulated enough dirt that she
now needs to cover it with a carpet. Tomorrow I’ll buy myself a carpet, she says to herself.
Vehicles continued to screech. Rush hour is until 9 pm, she thinks and looks at her watch, it has
stopped. It is half past eight and their guests were leaving. They stand in their doorpost, hands
clasped as they said goodbye to the last to leave. As they close the door, the house becomes an
empty vacuum. The husband makes his way to a couch and opens the TV to some baseball
channel. His wife stumbles her way to their bedroom as she stifles her sobs from making a
sound. No more arguments, just the painful silence. She takes in some pills to relieve her from
anxiety and to give her sleep.

But maybe the problem is the farmboy. Maria thinks. She pictures the sad face of a boy sitting
under an old tree. Everyday the boy sits and gazes on the setting sun while she stares at him as
she eats her dinner at night. Sunflowers. Butterflies. Woman caressing a Siamese cat. I should
buy a new painting. That boy doesn’t belong here. He will never be happy here.

The wind blows hard and sends Maria’s hair whipping her face and her skirt billowing high
above her knee. She holds her hair with one hand and pins her skirt with the other until she gets
tired and just lets her skirt be blown, and her face whipped aimlessly. At that same hour, a
woman lies alone in bed- the other side of it becomes a dump of cigarette butts and ashes. Her
hands extend motionless- palsied by the evenings she’s been spending with thoughts of him. She
makes an effort to stand up. She sits at the window ledge and looks beyond her reflection in the
window pane. The night pulsates with bright lights from the busy streets. Inside her unit she feels
nothing.
Maria sits still under the unsteady light from the lamppost. She looks up to inspect and sees only
mosquitoes flying around the light. 50 feet higher, she could’ve seen a cluster of stars forming a
skillet, a kiss, a ring, but she doesn’t as she engrosses herself at the mosquitoes suspended at the
irregular heat waves of the lamppost- like specks of dust suspended midair, obscuring a poster
plastered on walls on sidewalks. Under a photo of a little girl, it is written:

MISSING:
Sophia Bartolomew.
Height: 3.4”
Black hair, black eyes, fair complexion,
last seen on Oct. 15
if seen, pls contact: 535-4789

A couple spends the night awake on the couch, waiting for a phone call. A sign. A hope.

No, ma, I’m fine. My house may be a little messy but you must see my garden, then you’ll know
I’m fine. And skittles, I still feed him and he’s now all grown up. You must see him, too. Really
ma, I’m fine. I can take care of my garden and my skittles. Maria curls her lips with the sudden
thought of her garden and skittles and realizes she doesn’t have to phone her, because she is fine.

She sits still, engrossed by the atmosphere of the night. She distracts herself with the shadows of
mosquitoes dancing. Across the street, a family stops before going inside the church. They wait
for their son as he ties his shoelace. His younger sister amuses herself by putting her whole fist
inside her mouth, wanting to be noticed. Their mom gauges the number of people coming in. She
worries of having to sit at the farthest pew and reprimands her husband for getting home late.
Their son straightens his back and looks at the picture of a missing girl posted on the wall before
signaling his parents to proceed to the church. The priest sits at the bunk of his bed. praying,
confessing. He stands up as the bell rings. Maria closes her eyes as she hears the church bell
ringing with frugality She holds her breath to listen to the diminishing sound of the bell and
suddenly the world becomes mute.

The city, restless as it is at night becomes a haven to him. He lies back to his bed, stares at the
ceiling and mutters, “Maria sitting still under the gray sky jumps with a sudden thought, oh I
must go home. Skittles must be waiting for me!”