Langit Biru

Langit was a boy, beautiful boy, whose eyes as sharp as pieces of shattered glass, whose smile as rare as snow in a droughtland. Langit means sky, Biru means blue; in his name I found two of my favorite things, and in his soul I found love.

Langit was a boy, whom I love, whom I despise, whom I could never understand,

Langit said he wished to be born as the sea instead of the sky. Laut, not langit.

“But I like sky more,” I said. “The blue calms me down. And there’s the stars.”

“I’m sick of the sky,” Langit said. “It is never going anywhere.”

I was too afraid to ask, “So you’re leaving?” because in the silence I could taste the word yes.

Langit means sky, my sky, and on that day I learned that it was falling.

Langit was on the beach. I knew that it was the end, because he was smiling, smiling at the sea.

“This is me,”

Then langit became one with the ocean, until the blue no longer has limit, until the sky was sunk by its counterpart, until Langit’s stares and touches that never been, disappeared, consumed, swallowed by the endless depths. But he was smiling nonetheless.

Langit was the name. The name that remains. The name that stays. That never gone.

110212 | because I miss the beach and you.

Dusk, Diminishing

Now that the ages of their ignorance has flown away like a thousand doves and they are left only with the remnants of their glory, the once youthful and vigorous Mr. Rifky and his then-childhood sweetheart, the stubborn, rebellious Mrs. Yanita Rifky opt for a nostalgic trip down the memory lane. With his still-reliable ’95 Toyota Kijang they drive away to the spot in the hills where she was first proposed to him the insane idea of running away together. The young Rifky thought, what the hell, they were young, this was them versus the world—and of course, nobody would understand how this seemingly preposterous idea was the most reasonable thing to do for them at that time.

So he concurred.

Life after that was far from breezy, as issues he never had expected precipitously bombarding them like atomic bombs on Hiroshima. Broke and penniless, the inexperienced Rifky scrambled through one rejected job application after another while Yanita kept popping babies. Hard times, difficult times, and what used to be called love started to taste stale and sour. Still he struggled and still she stayed because they’ve long since learned the meaning of the word ‘commitment’. When Rifky eventually managed to secure a humble yet decent position on a local newspaper, Yanita sold homemade snacks in the neighborhood to add to their income. And with what they could save up they raised their three offsprings to the point where they are well-off enough to casually forget their parents’ merit.

Thirty-second anniversaries later, when the kids have their own busy lives and the grandkids don’t really want anything to do with them, all they have is each other. She has baked his favorite assortment of snacks, arranged them neatly in a Tupperware to be consumed later, and he has ordered his driver to let him keep the car for the whole day. He misses driving by himself.

Sunset is slipping down as they reach their place of reminiscence. He parks their car near the edge when chilly gust of wind initiates shivers on Yanita. Rifky realizes this and quickly puts his aging arms around his wife, the latter grants him a small smile and snuggles deeper to the nook of his limbs.

And now here they stay, immovable as corals, eyes transfixed to the spreading of minuscule colors beyond and below their windshield, while the tunes of Heatwave’s Dreaming You from the car radio rolls around the air and suddenly they are teenagers again; prideful, arrogant, and in love.
Entry untuk  Jenny Matlock’s Alphabe-ThursdayAlphabet: D.