by the river of shite i sat down and wept

It’s a breezy Thursday and the sun glitters warmly in patches not covered by the caimito and kolo trees. I hug my computer and cables to my chest as I prepare to cross the muddy path to my place behind the old house. The crossing always requires a certain amount of resolve--and a pair of good old rubber slippers. It had rained last night and I can hear wet mud squelching beneath my feet… can feel clumps of it sticking to my slippers at every step.  For the nth time in my mind, I flip the finger at the enterprising thief who stole the steel matting I used to pave this path with. The madafakah must have been as strong as an ox to lift it and haul it across a river laced with shit.

But today is a Little Miss Sunshine kind of day—not to be ruined by slasher-themed thoughts.

And there goes that white butterfly again! I swear it’s the same one flitting over the same bushes I’ve been passing by since I came home. This dazzling white flapper is totally afflicted with insectly ADHD, too! It’s so busy it doesn’t alight on any leaf for a moment. I can almost hear it singing a mad remix as it flies around gaily.

Butterflies used to give me the jitters.  For a long time, I had looked at them with fascinated dread. Lately though, I find myself strangely entranced by their fluttery dances. Back in Indonesia, I’d gaze transfixed at the small yellow-and-red kupu-kupu darting gracefully and lazily around my workplace. In the last couple of weeks, I’ve been suddenly enthralled by pictures of the beautiful Hawaiian kamehameha (simultaneous with my reinvented daydreams of being a Hawaiian beach bum). And now, this dainty white alibangbang teases me right in my backyard! It seems bent on keeping their ilk in place as side dish for my happy feels.

Right on cue, Whitey flits ahead of me, dancing two feet above ground towards my house by the old, beat-up river. I read that epileptics always smell something explicit and particular as a signal of an impending  fit. Along the same lines, I notice that my butterflies always rest on “doorways” to thoughts--rediscovered, newly discovered, recovered thoughts. This morning, following Whitey, I surprisingly find a doorway to silly childhood memories.

So I stop again and look at the grounds that are as familiar as my hands and feet. But I see it now as the old backyard that was home to my imagination a long, long time ago when the river wasn’t as filthy and the jackfruit tree was still home to the now lost agta.

And I know I will tell stories—stories of little girls and cousins and enchanted old trees and makeshift playhouses and never-ending games and laughter that make up a home. I will tell these stories though no one might listen. I will tell them before they’re completely gone. I will tell them because old loves and old ways need to be remembered and respected...even if their stories began and ended along a river steeped in shite.