On That Yellow Afternoon

The electricity shut down around 6 in the morning and did not return until 8 this evening. After draining my energy doing household chores and running errands in the city to kill time, I turned out vacant and blank, and I entertained the idea of death while lying on my bed. As if to set the scene perfectly, it was 5 PM, just in time for the darkness to start swallowing the daylight.

Death, for me, is somehow a lead-up from old age. I dread growing older because it is a sure pathway to bodily malfunctions and demise. In my mind, by the time I reach between age 60 to 70, I will be at home most of the time and be sitting nearest to the window as I observe young birds enjoy the sun and drop shits everywhere. And then, one day, the looming phenomenon, personified by a cloaked person, rings the doorbell to the house I saved up for thirty hardworking years. I would not stand up even if I could try but drop to the floor instead. I know damn well what follows this part.

It will rain hard on that yellow afternoon. The birds will continue flying, even singing the best song they know while circling the thriving mango tree I strategically planted next to my bedroom. In a stab, I will blend with the light.

I remember feeling this bothered about dying when I was overcoming Chicken Pox and the blisters that irritated me in the worst way possible in February this year. It was the idea that I may not recover and lead to complications even if my research says I may resume my routine in two weeks. In the same room, I remained secluded and down from on and off fever and envied my sister and mother coming in and out of the house for work looking their best. The parallel between that period and this afternoon is feeling alone too suddenly. Even my favorite person who makes me feel complete is 1,474.9 km away by bus and plane. I assumed being lost in the dark.

When death shows up, you cannot bribe it with medals and pennies. You cannot enumerate your feats and humanitarian deeds to buy for a few hours. And that part is scarier even for religiously prepared proclaimers.

I was one of the kids who asked their parents about death and carried their responses to bed, which kept us awake, thinking how we could survive without them. Ironically, I have become independent with can-do-this-on-my-own dominant attitude. But sometimes it hits me that senility and death, eventually, is such a dark, solitary period and scary to the bone.