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I Know Women Lovely in Their Bones
June 10, 2007We knew each other through Multiply. The friendship quickly became so much more than Multiply, however, and even though lately, we haven’t been writing in that site (We haven’t been writing at all!), we get together whenever we could to laugh, commiserate with each other, talk about dear friends near and far, share heartaches, or celebrate little triumphs. Last Friday, we saw each other again during Dionne’s Thanksgiving Party. My heart swelled in happiness when I saw the familiar faces - a thinner but beaming Aileen, the always poised and self-possessed Kaith, the exquisitely lovely Malou who walks with the bugoy gait of a tambay, and Mimi, who had the bloom of roses in her cheeks that night.
I know women, lovely in their bones. I don’t see them all the time, but everytime I think of them and the kooky, pretty souls I found in Multiply (T, Chelo, Lynette, Fil, Jopie, Pat), I am reminded of how lucky I am to have come across them in this lifetime. Friends are a feast for the heart and the mind.
Left to right (not sorted in any order of beauty or peculiarity): Aileen, Chin, Mimi, Kaith, Malou
Mona
June 3, 2007She runs long, lithe fingers through your soul, and each time, she strikes a chord so powerful the tremors stay with you for years to come.
Her name is Mona, and I went to high school with her. She is one of those girls you just can’t lump into any mold. She wrote, painted, played the guitar and the piano, and knew Shakespeare’s plays by heart. We used to spend hours listening to Disney soundtracks and memorizing their lyrics. We wrote screenplays and thought up characters - the uglier and more menacing they turn out to be, the better. We watched Dead Poets’ Society again and again, and howled, "O Captain, my captain!" with tears streaming down our cheeks.
Her father keeps a nude painting in their living room. I always thought it was cool, being able to gaze at a small, rosy nipple any time I feel like it. Mona’s dad, like Mona herself, is not like anyone else. He has long, unkempt hair, paint on his fingers, and the saddest eyes in the whole of Tagbilaran. Out loud, I called him Sir. Mona and I, however, called him Jesus.
How do I describe Mona? Even if I try, I will never be able to show you what a lovely person she is. Ten years ago, in a fit of schoolgirl romanticism, Mona, one other classmate, and I pricked our fingers and bled ever so daintily into a Coke bottle. We passed the bottle around with as much ceremony as our sixteen-year-old selves could muster. I shudder as I contemplate the hundred and one diseases we could have passed on to each other. We were young, and foolish, and very much addicted to grand gestures. We loved each other, too,and that love, I am now finding out, has never wavered - at least not in this heart - even after ten long years of never hearing from each other.
Yes, her name is Mona, and even after ten years, her fingers still speak to my soul. I hope you enjoy the music she makes.