And foolish though it may seem--

Here is one last faith in metaphor.
That it must do what it's meant to,

and draw you near.
Abstraction is the silence of skin:

- from "Braille", Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta

This morning, the sun was not its usual self and let the clouds have their way, but, pushing the threat of rain aside, I braved the gloom and took a walk. My feet led  me to a pathway I had not taken in a long while, and soon, I found myself in a familiar spot where the trees parted, ushering me into a clearing that I knew well.

"and there whisper-sing her songs to the sky, to the distantly aloof stars, the insomniac clouds, the attentive moon."

I felt my heart skip a beat at the sight of a well-loved wisteria-wrapped bower and, crossing the short bridge, I braced myself for the next sight.

"and when he spoke it was with a voice that reminded one of a perfectly tuned harp."

There it waited, the garden, but oh, how empty it stood, how desolate! Patches of brown grass called the eye's attention; yellowing leaves, fallen overnight, danced aimlessly about, blown by some vagrant wind. Last night's rain still lingered everywhere, its drops lacing what  little green remained.

My heart broke a little when I saw the chairs, empty now as I knew they had been for a long time. I walked toward the spot that was and still is sheltered by that huge beloved tree, its branches privy to so many conversations, much laughter and, later, some tears, some talk in low, mournful tones, an uncertain parting. Sometimes I fear I would never see you again. No books lay in the faded basket, no cups of tea sat on the rain-streaked table. I leaned against the still sturdy trunk of the faithful tree and looked about. I wondered if you had been here, at all, all this time. It didn't seem likely, but not absolutely impossible. Still, my heart sank as I drank in all the emptiness that lay about. How still the place seemed, but for a cold breeze blowing by, now and then. I am very ill, love. I am.

I searched my memory for all that had been said and realized I could no longer remember what the last words were. Has it been that long ago? Yes, it has. 

I started walking away but could not resist looking back. One last time, if this, indeed, be the last. Wherever you may be, happy birthday. I cannot altogether promise never to come back, but I will try.

"There's a few ways to call down the moon-road, if the sky is ready, and the timing's right. Sometimes you can summon a moonbeam by whistling, like some people can summon the wind."