QUILLS WRITING COMPETITION

LESLIE MCINTIRE DECIDES TO DIE

GENRE: COMEDY/ROMANCE

Republic of the Philippines

Mindanao State University- General Santos City
POLITICAL SCIENCE DEPARTMENT
2nd Semester, AY 2020-2021

In Partial Fulfillment of the

Requirements in
ADVANCED GRAMMAR AND COMPOSITION (ENG105A 32-2)

to
PROF. NORMAN RALPH ISLA
Instructor

by
DEOCAMPO, CHURCHILL II
Student

January 20, 2022

 LESLIE MCINTIRE DECIDES TO DIE

Churchill II D. Deocampo

We see life differently. To some, they see life superficially, like the ability of a person to
inhale, exhale, and distribute blood that carries different sources of nutrients to our body for us to
survive. To some, they see life as a considerable checklist, achieving preset goals and realizing
dreams that may give comfort in the future. Some describe life as balancing a circus clown
carrying an elephant that holds a house full of anvils. Some see it as chasing something just to
end their suffering. But only those who live their life with suffering as their companion truly lived.

"For me? Oh, Good gravy! Thank you so much! I haven't eaten for ages!" Said Tony,
a scrawny homeless man I saw scavenging for food in dustbins near Loblaws. With a trembling
hand, he took the bag of Big Mac, fries, and large coke from my hand. Tony finished the burger
in less than a second, took a big gulp of the large coke, and sighed in relief. I watched him as he
put the fries inside a shoebox and put it in his grocery cart that may or may not be from Loblaws,
where all his belongings were piled up.

The people are watching us, especially me, sitting on the parking lot ditch while watching
a smelly old homeless man devouring a burger. One couple in their 60s parked next to my car
wrinkled their nose at the sight of Tony. They throw me a disgusted look before heading off to
Loblaws. I ignored them.

I can't deny that the sight of Tony and I sitting on a Loblaws parking lot is a bit strange. A
homeless man, skinny, disheveled, and covered with dirt and grease from head to toe, ravenously
eating his first meal for weeks. And a 25-year-old woman, sitting beside him wearing a peach
cardigan emblazoned with the accounting firm's logo from where she's working at.

"I'll save the fries for dinner. Are we being filmed? Is this one of those shows where
you give food to homeless people and see their reaction?" I can tell somebody gave him food
before but did so in a degrading way, where they filmed their "generosity" to get the people's
attention to monetize their video. Tony's kind hazel eyes are looking for something, a camera
maybe. Curious as to why I showed him such generosity.

"No. We're not being filmed. I just want to give you a meal," I said and smiled.

He looked at me unconvinced but still gave me a kind and warm smile.

 "That's very thoughtful of you. May the almighty bless you more in return. May he
grant you long life. The world needs more people like you," he said.

The almighty, yes. When I was young, I was taught that Jesus would not leave his children
alone, that he loved his children dearly that he died to save them from eternal damnation. But he
also punishes those who are not his children.

I grew up in a church where we only value people who know and believe in Christ and
persecute those who don't. That's why our family disowned my brother Jack and me because my
brother is gay, and I support my brother for who he is. Now we’re disowned and branded as
"Marionette black sheep controlled by the devil to destroy and divert our family's focus from the
Almighty." My brother, a sweetheart, blamed himself for our family's decision, took his own life
last month, and left everyone devastated, especially me and his boyfriend, Matt. My family knows
what happened but chooses not to show up at his funeral. At that moment, I feel like God has
completely abandoned us.

Even though I refused to trust God, I just looked up to Tony and smiled.

Tony and I sat there for a few hours. He chatted about how he fought the Taliban in
Afghanistan, met his wife, and moved to Montreal. How everything cascaded down after his wife
and his two son's death, and how Tony ended up here in Ottawa and became homeless. Finally,
Tony told me how he misses his brothers and sisters back in Texas, and most especially, how
much he misses his wife and sons.

The sky was getting dark, and the sun was setting when our chat ended. It's mostly Tony
talking about his life and me listening.

"Well, that was quite a chat. I never opened up on someone, especially on strangers
that deep before," Tony said and smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. He looked up in the
heavens and sighed. The cold made his breath visible, and I feel bad for leaving him here in the
cold parking lot. I fished for my wallet inside my purse and gave Tony a hundred bucks. He looked
at the bill with an awed expression for a while. Then he looked at me with dilating eyes. I reached
for his hand and gave him the money.

"It's cold outside. Find a motel to stay," I said, still clasping his hand. After a few
moments, he accepted the bill and gave me a radiating smile, a smile full of hope. I never know
how long he's been sleeping in a cold hard ground near Loblaws. The thought of him sleeping on
a soft, warm bed with a full stomach makes me feel at ease.
 He stood there staring at the $100 bill on his hand, the setting sun blocked his face, but
the hope emanating from him could be felt from miles away.

"When I woke up this morning, I told myself that good things would come. And what
do you know, just before the sun goes down, you came. I can't wait for what tomorrow has
stored for me," he said, still staring at the hundred-dollar bill. He went to his cart and pulled a
book from the pile.

"This was one of my wife's favorite books. She can't put this book down. I want you
to have it," I feel bad taking something away from him that reminds him of his wife. "It's an
excellent read, and don't worry; she gave me the same book as a Christmas present a long
time ago. You can have that one," Tony said. I took the book and read the title: Brida, by Paulo
Coelho. I heard the author somewhere, but I haven't read some of his works. Despite the
precarious pile of Tony's belongings, the book is surprisingly in good condition. No creases, no
dog-eared pages, the book is good as new.

"Uhm, before I go, may I know your name, young lady?" Tony asked.

"Leslie. Leslie McIntire," I said. He smiled and gave me his goodbye. I watched him
push his cart, looking for the nearest motel. Tony waved me goodbye before leaving the Loblaws
parking lot and ventured into downtown Ottawa. I waved at him and went inside my car, pulled
my notepad from my bag, put a check on Buy 80 burgers, and gave one burger to a homeless
person you came across. There were only two things left on my list: Go to a park and go to a
theme park and ride all the rides.

My brother did the same thing before he took his life. He went on an elaborate process of
preparing himself to die. He went to the US-Canada border and wrote his last song; How close I
am leaving home. He gave all his friends his favorite comic books and gave his priced skateboard
to his boyfriend, Matt. And he gave me his favorite guitar, his iPod Mini, and a CD of all his
composed songs. And lastly, he left me this notepad where he wrote all his songs. The same
notepad I'm writing my death list.

The ride back to my condo is dire and bleak. Every time I go home reminds me of how
awful my situation is. Debt-ridden with student loans, a work environment that you once enjoyed
now has become a burden. And to cap it all off, my condo reminds me of my deceased brother.
Hence, I’m taking the longest and least taken road and stop longer than necessary whenever
there is a stop sign or a red light. When I’m finally home, I hit the hay almost immediately. Just
like Tony, I can't wait for what tomorrow has stored for me. My destiny. My fate.

Everything happened in a flash. I woke up, brushed my teeth, grabbed my car keys, and
now I'm sitting on a park bench, sipping tea, and snaping polaroid pictures with my Instax while
listening to music with my brother’s iPod Mini. The park is surprisingly empty. I expected it to be
full of people walking their dogs or spreading their blankets and lounging in the maple leaf-strewn
grass. But only a few people were strolling.

Autumn has finally come. Yellow and red leaves are slowly falling from the trees strewing
the grass. I guess it’s fitting because I feel like a tree slowly losing its leaves. In no time, I’ll be
leaving this life and be free. I took a snap of the flower on the pavement crack, shook the polaroid
picture, and wrote at the back: Leslie’s last photography 10-18-2005. I took my notepad out of my
bag and checked my death list.

“Excuse me. Is this seat taken?” said a man. I turn my head to look at who’s taking. He
has brown curly hair and thick brown brows. He has a chiseled jawline peppered with a stubble
beard. He's wearing a white polo underneath a dark olive-green sweater tucked in his khaki pants.
His amber eyes are looking at me. I looked at him and gestured for him to sit down. We sat there
for a minute—me, snapping photographs. Him reading a book, probably waiting for someone. We
continued whatever we were doing until he broke the silence.

“Are you the girl giving burgers at Loblaws yesterday?” He asked. I turned my head
to face him, expecting to see a judging expression on his face. However, he looked curious.

“Yes. I was giving a burger to every homeless man I came across. I gave 80 burgers
all in all,” I made it sound like I'm crazy to make him go away and find an empty park bench.
However, it only made him look curious.

“Why?” He asked. I told him about my death list and didn’t bother to make it less morbid.
I was expecting him to be appalled or harp me with more questions.

“Well, they say the inevitability of death makes people obsessed with it,” he said
and picked the flower I was taking photographs of and put it in his book like a bookmark. “They're
obsessed of it to the point where they come up with abstract places such as heavens and
hells, and abstract things like God, and salvation. They devout themselves to these
abstractions and spend their entire lifetime preparing to enter such abstract places and
presenting themselves worthy before these abstract things. However, they have no
tangible clue what awaits them in the afterlife. They come up with these abstractions rather
than succumbing to anonymity and enigma of death.” he said, looking at the distance. I was
dumbstruck, unable to respond. I just looked at his relaxed expression.

"Do you mind showing me your death list?" He spoke. I reluctantly show him the list.
He read it and nodded.

“So why the park?” He asked. I told him that I was taking pictures of flowers and then
gave them to some friends, explaining that I'd give them flowers that reminded them of me.
Flowers that won't rot and stay with them forever. He listens to me intently, absorbing every word.
He took the photographs inserted in the notepad and examined them.

“What an exceptional flower,” he said to me. "Of all the flowers in this park, you
picked this one,” he said.

"No, it just happens that it's closer from where I'm sitting," I replied. His expression
changed from relaxed to amused. He examined the polaroid picture once again.

“Oh, not so exceptional then —not unique. Ordinary. Just like me, this person with
a death list, and even prime minister Paul Martin. Because nobody is special, all the
problems given to us aren't special either. Our teachers, parents, relatives, and
churchmates kept reminding us how special and unique we were. Still, in reality, we're not
so different from each other. We tend to compare our struggles with others, using metrics
like money. “I don’t make much money than him. Hence, my struggles are much more
difficult than his." "Yes, I make buttloads of money. But it doesn't make me happy, and to
be happy should be our goal. Hence, my suffering is greater than his.” What I'm trying to
say is that despite the differences of our struggles, and its degree, we are not special
because everyone suffers from the same certainty of suffering and problems. So why
waste our time escaping our problems if we can succumb to them and accept their
inevitability? Why surrender our ordinary and uninteresting lives to our not so special
problems?” he said, then looked at me with a relaxed expression.

“Would it be better if we give zero care to anything and anyone because no amount
of change will make an impact on our lives and our problems? No amount of death will
change the blandness of life?” I stared at him, struck by his philosophy. He smiled at me and
reached out his hand.
 “I’m Clyde, by the way," he said. This person just popped out of nowhere, shared his
philosophy that surprisingly enlightened me, then introduced himself as if we were at someone's
party. He still has the amused expression on his face.

“I’m Leslie,” I took his hand and shook it.

“Mind if I ask why your last death list is to ride all the rides of a theme park?” Clyde
asked.

“Well, if I’m to take my life, it would be better if I do it without fear,” I replied to him.
He listens intently, then absentmindedly propped open his book- and the flower that I was taking
pictures of is now flat and stained the pages of Clyde’s book.

"And the best way to face your fear is to ride all the rides in a theme park." Clyde
smiled and put the pressed flower in my note pad then he gave it back to me. “Fear, like death,
is inevitable, and facing it might be virtuous. I love talking with you, Leslie. But I have to
go." Clyde said.

I smiled at him and waved him goodbye. I proceeded to take more pictures of flowers. I
wasn't surprised that there are not many flowers in the park since it's the fall season. But I found
enough flowers to take pictures of, and surprisingly they're mostly flowers growing on concrete
cracks. The same type of flower Clyde plucked up. I spend my whole day in the park. I was
contemplating my fate while taking snaps of the scenery. I'm thinking of everything that Clyde has
told me.

It's 1 pm, and I'm driving to ‘Bombs away, the nearest theme park in Ottawa. After 30
minutes of driving, I finally arrived. The entrance is full of fake cobwebs, and the ‘’Bombs away’
sign—written in nuclear-waste-green paint— is covered with yet another fake cobwebs, pumpkins
and bats. Whoever designed the theme park did a terrible job. The screams of people, and the
roar of the rides can be heard from the parking lot. Behind the entrance, you can see the
rollercoaster rails sticking up. Other rides are visible from the outside too: bungee jumps, drop
tower, and other rides that make your stomach drop. The line is long, primarily teenagers dating.
I see a girl clutching his boyfriend’s hand while awing at the massive drop tower. She looked
scared; her boyfriend comforted her as they walked to the entrance and waited in the queue. I
feel no fear at all. I feel alive than before. This land of happiness is nothing but a training ground
to suppress my fear. I think I'm pretty good at doing it since I felt no fear at all because how can
you feel fear if you can't even feel pain. I grabbed my bag and my brother’s notepad and waited
in the queue.

It seems everyone is scared. Children are cowering behind their parents, looking around
with wide, dilating eyes, guys shivering at the sight of the roller coaster rail and the height of the
drop tower and bungee jumps. I watched every person and assessed their emotions; most of
them were scared and thrilled at the same time, some were scared but not showing it. One person
caught my eye in the middle of the queue: he was staring at me with excitement and thrill in his
eyes. Thrilled not to the theme park rides but to meet someone— someone he’s expecting to
meet in this god-forsaken place.

He walked towards me, smiling. The same smile, the same curly down hair and thick
brown brows, the same chiseled jawline with a stubbled beard, and the same alluring amber eyes.

“Hey, Leslie, right? I’m so sorry if I creeped you out yesterday. I thought you
changed your mind about your plans,” Clyde said. He looked at me with apologetic eyes. “I’ll
pay for all the rides, don’t worry. I didn’t mean to be such a creep yesterday,” I gave him a
weak smile and asked him not to. I didn't find him creepy yesterday; I was just stunned. But now,
I find him creepy. Willing to pay for all the rides in the theme park for a girl he just met yesterday.
After a few minutes of insisting, I immediately gave in when we reached the entrance. Our arm
was stamped with: Bombs away 10-19-2005.

The theme park is jampacked with people of all ages. The roar of the rides, screams,
laughter, giggles, and thrilled gasps were all blended in one joyful chaos. What I feel inside is the
exact opposite of the mood in our surroundings. Clyde and I walked for about a minute before
deciding which ride we'd try first.

“Which ride do you fancy?” Clyde asked, tucking his hand in his pocket. He’s wearing
a blue polo underneath a brown suede jacket, and denim pants. His curly brown hair seems to
glow when lit by the afternoon sun. He caught me staring at him. He raised his thick brown
eyebrows and asked me again which ride we'd go first.

“I’m afraid of heights, so let’s try the drop tower first”.

The line wasn’t long since everyone chickened out at the sight of the daunting height of
the drop tower. We made it into the ticket booth, and we were ushered into our seats.

“Are you ready?” Clyde asked while helping me fasten my seatbelt.

 “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I said. Clyde is shaking a little bit. I regretted bringing him here
because, like me, he's afraid of heights as well. I looked at him and gave him an encouraging
smile. He smiled back, squinting, trying so hard not to lose his grip on the rail in front of us. The
scorching afternoon sun emphasizes Clyde's dilating amber eyes, making it more russet and
copper brown. We slowly ascend, and the people around us howl their lungs out. Some began
screaming as we went upward. As expected, I feel nothing at all. I want this thing to malfunction
and kill us all, or just me.

Clyde closed his eyes like he was accepting his demise. He gripped tightly on the iron rail,
making his veins pop on his hands and arms. I put my hand on his and leaned closer to him, and
whispered, “It’s okay. Accept the inevitability of death. Perhaps ask mercy from the abstract
thing people are praying to?” He opened his eyes and looked at me. He’s so pale, but he
manages to crack a smile and laugh. Almost immediately, we stopped ascending. The next thing
we knew, we plummeted back to the ground, and everyone was screaming, even Clyde. In the
middle of our descent, I look around and see the people's faces.

Screams. They're all screaming. Some passed out, and some cried. Meanwhile, I'm here,
clutching the hand of a stranger I just met yesterday with no trace of fear or any emotion in my
face. The descend continued until our feet safely touched the ground.

We strolled the theme park while Clyde tried to calm himself down. We laughed at the joke
I said before being thrown back to the ground. Clyde found it funny and went into gales of laughter
whenever he remembered it. His laugh, his eyes, the way he stares at me gives me butterflies,
especially when his hand brushed against mine while we're strolling. I kept watching him while
we traversed from one end of the theme park to another, hopping from one ride to the next.

“Wanna know exactly the reason why I choose the drop tower first?” I asked Clyde
while we were strolling near the Jolly Roger Island ride.

“What is it?” Clyde replied, still shaking from the previous ride. I took my brother’s
notepad from my bag and flipped through the pages of his compositions until it reached to his last
song. I’m clutching it as if it was my brother himself. Tears welled in my eyes as I struggled to tell
Clyde about the reason why I chose the drop tower ride.

“The night he took his life, he told me that he needs inspiration for his latest
composition and asked my permission to go to the rooftop. I said yes, and the last thing I
knew was the blaring siren of an ambulance, the doctor telling me my brother is dead." A
bead of tear rolled down from to my cheeks, followed by another bead of tear, and another, and
another until I couldn't control my emotions anymore. Clyde hugged me, and I couldn't help but
cry on his shoulder. We stood there. God only knows how long. The entire world span too fast yet
so slow. The grief I was suppressing before resurfaced and slowly killing me. I thought I would
never feel pain again after my brother's funeral. But the pain of realizing your brother will never
come back, the emptiness and vacuum he left are more painful. The pain of insurmountable grief
is worse than the death of a thousand cuts.

Clyde cupped my cheeks with his hands. "Cry everything out. It's the only way to set
yourself free," Clyde said. His face is so close to mine that I can see my reflection through his
russet amber eyes. His amber eyes, I’m drowning in the abyss of his amber eyes. I can see both
our souls like talking to someone behind a window. I’ve never felt like this before. I cried my whole
heart out that I didn't think I'd be able to recover. But Clyde helped me unload my grief. Everyone
was staring at us, so Clyde ushered me to sit down near the fountain. Clyde asked everything
about my brother. I told him everything about him, his childhood, and his high school life. I even
told Clyde about how our family disowned us up until my brother's last days.

"Well, your brother and I have so much in common. I find our similarities uncanny,"
Clyde said. He clutched my hand and continued talking.

“We were both disowned by our family, and we both struggle with our sexuality,”
Clyde said. Now I was the one who listens intently.

“My real name is Sveta Erdoğan. My parents were so enraged when they found out
I’m lesbian. They tried everything to convert me: Burned all my philosophy books, won't
let me mingle with my guy friends, and transferred me to an all-girls catholic school, which
only makes me more attracted to girls. When I was in college, they found out that I'll never
change; they tried to kill me in my sleep. My brother, Zeki and my sister, Fatma, saved me.
They helped me leave Gatineau, bought me an apartment here in Ottawa, transferred a
large sum of money to my bank account before my parents left Canada, and flew back to
Turkey. The first year my brother and sister left was tough.”

He let go of my hand and pointed something in front of us. “You see those claw crane
machines over there? That’s what mine and your brother's life was. We're trying so hard
to get something we want, but we simply can't because it’s hard and impossible. Your
brother and I long for our family’s acceptance,” he looked at me with a tearful eye, "But we
just can't have it. We didn't choose to be like this. I'd rather be straight and live a normal
life if given a chance. Since we'll never get what we wanted, we simply gave up. I changed
my identity, and your brother took his own life."

I hugged Clyde and once again cried on his shoulders. We hugged each other for so long
the sun began to set. “We tend to face our fears to overcome them and prepare ourselves
to face something that needs courage. But how can we do so if the only thing that scares
us the most is ourselves?” Clyde said. We still hug each other. After what feels like an eternity,
we unshackle ourselves from our embrace and spend the rest of the afternoon riding the rest of
the rides we haven’t tried yet.

*****

It was 6:15 pm when I had enough of all the rides. We ate dinner and strolled once again.
The air began to crisp, and we could almost see each other's breath. Clyde noticed my discomfort
and gave me his leather jacket.

“I’m fine, Clyde. You keep it," I said, but he insisted I put on his coat. Since I don't want
him to get cold, I put the other sleeve of his suede jacket over his shoulder and the other over
mine, covering us both.

I felt him tense. He looked at me with his dilating amber eyes and smiled. Everything about
Clyde is perfect: the way his curly brown hair seems to shine when exposed to sunlight, his
chiseled jawline, and plump lips. But his eyes, there's something behind those eyes. I can feel his
soul, his entire being. Once I stared at those amber eyes and drowned in its abyss, plummeting
deeper and deeper and drawing closer and closer to his soul. We continue to stroll around the
theme park. Our hands brushed against each other occasionally until we didn't notice we were
holding each other's hands.

When we were about to reach the exit, a buffed and shredded man wearing a gladiator
costume rolling a fake boulder twice his size walked past us and gave us a nod. We stopped and
watched the man roll a fake boulder to a platform in front of the roller coaster and brag his strength.
Everyone around him howled and cheered.

“He reminds me of Sisyphus rolling a boulder on top of the mountain for all
eternity,” he said, looking at me. I squeezed his hand laughed. He looked at me and tucked a
lock of hair behind my ear.

“I once lived a life like Sisyphus. But instead of escaping death, I chased death. I
attempted suicide before. But I always end up on a hospital bed. I lived a nomadic life
chasing death until I had enough. I lived a life rolling my burdens wishing it to end. But
when I reached the peak of my despair and decided to kill myself, I'd end up back at the
foot of my mountain again, rolling my burdens and struggles again in square one. Life’s
not worth living if you’re suffering. Not until you learn how to live with your suffering,
accept it and let your sufferings be your companion in life. You will not appreciate life not
until you master the art of taming your sufferings and despair, that is, through accepting
its inevitability,” He removed his jacket. He put it on my shoulders, and he took a pen and a
receipt from his pocket and wrote something down.

“Here’s my number,” He put the receipt in my pocket. He cupped my face again with his
hands. His amber eyes were staring at my soul again.

“Call me if you wanna take photographs of flowers or if you wanna hang out at some
theme park somewhere." He said goodbye like how a soldier would say goodbye to his family
or say goodbye to a dying person. I looked at his face, his curly brown hair, thick brown eyebrows,
his chiseled jawline with a stubble beard, plump lips, and most especially, his amber eyes. Our
faces are only inches away from each other. Our lips slowly collide, and the next thing we know,
the entire world froze. Time, motion, gravity all came to a halt.

We’re kissing each other as if it’s our first and last. Well, it is our first and last. The pain
and suffering I felt before rained over me en masse. I broke off and ran to the exit with tears in
my eyes. I went inside my car and drove back to my condo. I don't have the courage to look at
Clyde in pain. I don't have the courage to see someone in pain. I don't have the courage to see
someone else's pain mirroring mine. I drove around downtown Ottawa to ease my pain a little bit.
I stopped at a parking lot somewhere and cried for a moment. The pain is too much to handle.
Clyde's pain of losing me mirrors my despair at my brother's funeral. When I finally pulled myself
together, I found myself at a parking lot in a motel. All the rooms are shut, curtains drawn and
lights out. The only room with lights on was room 02, with an empty shopping cart outside
underneath the windowsill. I realized that it was Tony's cart. Surprisingly, I felt calm and hopeful.
Calmness and hope radiating from the light of room 02 pass through me. And immediately, I
realized it’s time to face my real fear. Hence, I drive back to my condo.

The rooftop is the same. There’s no railing, no warning sign saying, "do not jump", and the
picnic table where my brother and I would sometimes have dinner is still there. As I stood on the
edge of the 15-storey building looking down below, realizations came rushing through me en
masse.
 I’m clutching my brother’s notepad and iPod Mini wondering what I could do to save my
brother. Save my brother from his natural enemy, from himself. I will do everything to go back in
time and tell my brother that it is ourselves that we must overcome. If only I could say to him that
life is like a claw crane machine and you can't always have what you want, and it's okay because
you can always stop playing the stupid machine and ride all the rides or perhaps stroll the night
away with people who value your worth.

Like Clyde, my brother lived like Sisyphus, and I wish I could help him roll his burdens. I
wish I could teach him how to live a life with nothing but despair and suffering as a companion; I
wish I could tell him that there's a way of taming his demons. I cried so hard that my knees gave
up, something slipped from my bag and fell on the floor, close to the edge of the building. It’s the
book that Tony gave me. Brida. I picked up the book and sat at the picnic table in the center of
the rooftop, and turned the book on its last page:

“He knew this because of the flowers and the forest and because of the young women
who arrived one day led by God's hand, not knowing that they are there for destiny to be fulfilled.
He knew this because of the Tradition of the Moon and the Tradition of the Sun.”

As I put the book on the table with a shaking hand, I realized a flower was growing on the
cracks of the picnic table. The same flower I was taking photographs with. The same flower Clyde
put in my brother’s notepad. I grabbed my brother’s notepad and saw the pressed flower like a
bookmark. As I looked around the rooftop, I noticed that the same flower was blooming
everywhere. They're all growing and blooming on the concrete cracks. I stood up, put the book
and my brother’s notepad inside my bag, grabbed my phone, and dialed Clyde's number. Almost
instantly, Clyde picked up. His voice, his warm voice, filled the air; I can almost feel his warm
touch, and if I close my eyes, I can almost see his warm amber eyes.

“Clyde, meet me at the park”.

I can't wait for what tomorrow has stored for me. My destiny. My fate.