It seems that in every encounter, we are never really prepared for loss. Departure, like death, is an inevitability that is often misunderstood. It seems so, but you, who are always chaotic, seem to not believe it.
“Homecomings are always temporary. They are never permanent. Tomorrow, the day after, or next month, I will return. I always come back for you.”
But now you have disappeared, for months, without a trace or message. It’s as if what you called homecoming indeed requires such a long time. I thought, all of us, me and the people who also miss you, had grown accustomed to anxiety.
“Why worry? If I am destined to die on a throne while drunk or at the altar while praying, it’s all the same,” you said angrily.
Today is no different, anxiety creeps in slowly. And without realizing it, I shed tears. You know what? It feels so embarrassing to suddenly cry while busy bargaining for flowers. I actually don’t understand why I started crying. Perhaps it was just a sudden overflow of emotions that stopped by, I thought.
Do you like orchids or roses? I’ve never been fond of either flowers. “You’re strange, how can you not like beautiful flowers? You only like rambutan, no wonder your hair is curly,” you said while laughing.
What do you really want? Coming and going as you please, don’t you know? The complicated season can still be predicted, but you and all your carefree behaviors are a mystery. Why do you have to come only to leave again? Like summer rain.
“I just want to see you smile, that’s enough, I have to go again,” you said while carrying a large backpack whose contents I don’t know.
Meanwhile, I hate seeing you getting thinner with each of our brief encounters. “Bah, do you think I should eat how much to become a pig?” I hate it when you say that. As if all disgust belongs to pigs. A pig never wants to be born as a pig, just as an eagle shouldn’t always want to fly. “But eagles are stylish, they’re have good eyes like mine,” and we laugh as if it’s nothing out of the ordinary.
— — — —
“God is never fair in dividing time.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Every time we meet, it seems like time evaporates like spirits.”
“You’re exaggerating, maybe you’ve been meeting a flock of ducks too often.”
“There’s no connection!”
“There is a connection, hey, what about our song? Anyone else but you…”
“Forget about the song, we’re talking now. Can you be serious? No wonder your research isn’t finished yet!”
“My graduation has nothing to do with the song.”
“It does, you’re just too foolish.”
“Foolish. I am, and I’m always proud to be foolish.”
I regret calling you foolish. But you are foolish, refusing to graduate just because of an argument about yes and no with the professor. I’ve always said that every professor has an ego that can’t be contained. You always run away as if chased by the possibility of drowning in obstinacy. While what you call obstinacy is a way of life. Will you always be like that?
“Don’t go, at least not today.”
“Ah, this is new. Usually, you want me to leave quickly.”
“Not now, just stay here with me, let’s walk around the city, please.”
“I wish I could.”
“We seem to be parting ways and will never meet again.”
“I never believe in goodbyes, because those who leave never truly disappear. There is always a space where we remember, that’s where we truly exist.”
“Do you always talk like that? I’m sick of hearing your pretentious words,”
“Perhaps, sometimes I think that’s why we can’t always be together. We need breaks and distance,”
“But does it have to be this far and this often?”
“Every train needs a station to stop, right?”
“There are many stations…”
“Not for me, there’s only one station. My train may just make a brief stop, but all the stops are only for you,”
The train whistle blew, and that was the last time I saw you and your silly smile. “I’m going home, it might take a while, the house is far,” when you said that, there was a hint of doubt. You weren’t sure if you could come back. It seemed like you were going to a distant place that didn’t offer a return ticket. “Take care and don’t forget to eat,” that’s all I could say.
— — — — —
Then I found that message in a corner of your room. It seemed like a letter you failed to send. Today marks two months since you left for the umpteenth time. The worn-out letter was stained with coffee, and all its corners had turned yellow. For a moment, I felt jealousy, like sudden hatred. Who did you send that letter to? You never even bothered to let me know, not even a Christmas or birthday greeting.
But my curiosity was more thrilling than my jealousy. I no longer care if you come back later and get angry. I just don’t want to burden myself with curiosity and suspicion. I slowly unfolded the paper like a fragile object crumbling at the touch of the wind. Then, holding my breath, I read the first word of the letter.
For Joni
It seems that this time I’ve been holding on to feelings I never understand. I decided to run away from the noise of the mosque and the silence of prayers. Like you, trapped by choices. Orchid and roses. Sky and earth. Rain and clouds. It’s all about choices.
I, too, had to make a choice. But it’s not for you.
I don’t know how to react. It feels like all time and air have stopped. My entire body is suffocating with bitterness. What have you done? You made decisions as if they were ordinary. As if there was no need for reasons or explanations. You coward! You bastard! You have no idea what it’s like to hope and then be disappointed by the fact that you won’t get anything.
It feels like my world ended right at that moment. Your letter is like a belated death sentence. I, overwhelmed by anger, sadness, and loneliness, screamed, cried, and then collapsed. Your parents arrived too. They didn’t know what had happened; all they saw was a man sitting alone, crying, holding a tattered letter.
Your parents helped me to sit on a chair. They gave me a glass of water. You know, when we’re sad, we never pay attention to those little details. Like why the evening sky looked so bright despite the recent rain. Or the dust that piled up in your messy room. Some of your poetry and philosophy books are starting to accumulate near the bathroom. Everything becomes insignificant when the world we believed in has to be shattered because of our emotions.
That evening, I left your house as the defeated one. Your parents watched me go. Watching my back slowly disappear into the distance. They knew that the wound you inflicted will never fully heal. “Forgive our daughter, Joni,” your mother said. I felt a little angry, what right did she have to ask for forgiveness in your name?
“I can’t forgive you.”
I wished the world would end right then and there. I can’t function normally afterwards. Like a soldier defeated after a war. I came home with my head bowed, celebrating my defeat.
— — — — — — —
This morning, Waingapu is still piercingly cold as usual. The wind and rain conspire with the clouds, bringing a bitter feeling in the morning. The sun won’t be visible for at least the next six months. It has been four years since you decided to leave and abandon me. But foolishly, I still feel like you were never truly serious. I still believe that you were just saying goodbye temporarily.
“Returning is always temporary. It’s never permanent. Tomorrow, the day after, or next month, I will come back. I always come back for you.”
I still believe that and continue to wait for you to come back and walk with me to choose between an orchids or roses.
