HiveComb

Another weekend has arrived. The to-do list seems as long as Monday. Time slipping through my fingers, like water or air. I'm not looking to catch it or stop it, but to make the most of it. Every second counts.

It's Saturday morning and I keep thinking about them. "What will they do?" I ask myself. "What will have happened to that person? Will they have solved that problem? How will she be?" I concentrate on doing everything I have pending, but the questions crowd my mind.

The story I write hangs by a thread. The character hesitates between taking a flight to sign a contract with a famous soccer club. Or taking another flight that will take him back home. Where his mother is waiting, about to die of breast cancer that was not treated in time.

I remember what happened with my nephew. The years I didn't share with him. The stranger I am now to his life. I remember also that my mother is young, but has ailments, problems, and worries. I remember my friends. The few I have left. The times we have laughed non-stop because of some silly thing that only we understand. I remember my brothers, our differences, and our usual silences.

My nephew is doing well, thank God, but far from home. Every day we become strangers to him. My father was healthy and yet he died. I don't know what I would do if Mom passed away. If any other family member passed away. My friends understand me, they know I try hard. I count them on the fingers of one hand, but that's enough. Sometimes, my brothers and I don't look like family, but we'd put our hands in the fire to help each other.

The character looks at the soccer ball in his hands. How many people has he left behind to chase it? How long has he lived so alone? He thinks of his mother again. She asked him to fight, no matter what. He had to do it for her and her sisters. He had to give his all on the court. Like there was no tomorrow.

I keep thinking about them. When was the last time we laughed together? I rummage through the files in my memory and go straight to "D". My fingers swipe through folder after folder: "Dad," "Dailies," "Damages," "Dame," "Dance," "Danger," "Date," "Deal," "December." I stop in the last month of the year and relive the Christmas dinner we shared.

I once told my mother that I liked to celebrate New Year's Day because I could hug her and Dad without any problems. I was a kid when I told her that. My eyes mist over. I can't hug my father anymore.

It has been two months since I have seen my family. I usually talk on the phone with my mother, but a phone call will never be the same as interacting in person. It's February. The month of love and friendship. It's been a while since I've experienced those feelings.

The soccer ball is under the airport bench that the character used to occupy. He ran off to catch his flight and forgot what he thought was most important in his life. A boy picks up the ball. He shows his parents what he has found. They scold him. They look around for the possible owner. Yet, the character has just boarded the plane.

I get up. I leave the story half done. I get everything ready and rush back to the house. Two hours later I'm arriving. My mother is surprised. My siblings too. They are always surprised when I visit them.

"What brings you here, son? "my mother asks.

"And that? What are you doing? "asks my sister.

"Junior! What happened? "says my younger brother.

"Talk to me, bro. What's up? "says the older one.

"You're alive! We thought you had died over there," exclaims several of my friends.

No matter the time, no matter the place. If we meet for the first time after so long, that is the question. If I visit them more often, the questions take on a tone of deeper strangeness. My answer is the same for all.

"Nothing. I'm visiting.

I can't say that I'm looking for the warmth they give me. Nor that sometimes I am afraid of losing them. Or that I feel guilty for not sharing with them as I used to. Let alone express the affection I have for them. We are not like that. We were not raised that way. Yet, it is enough to see them again to understand that their love is inexhaustible. When I return, they welcome me with the same hospitality as always. Even though I have been gone for several months.

We have no luxuries, no money to splurge, but we laugh together as if we were swimming in gold coins. We stay up late playing cards or dominoes. We don't even need alcohol to pass the time. A cup of coffee is enough. A little music. A good talk.

This way, even for a moment, I don't worry about time or the to-do list. I forget about my problems and try to appreciate their company to the fullest. I don't even care about what happened to that soccer player. But I hear a voice telling me about a possible end.

The character arrived home. Eight hours of flight and an ocean separated him from his family. He was tired and worried. His sisters welcome him with a hug. They look older than usual, wrapped in sadness. They tell him how Mom is doing. They take him to the room where she sleeps. It is painful to see how the cancer has consumed her body. There is nothing to do. She was tired of hospitals. She doesn't want to know about chemotherapy anymore. She wants to die in peace.

The character. The man. The soccer player. Now a boy. He cries because Mom will go away. He unburdens himself to his sisters. He expresses the deep pain in his chest. His sisters cry with him. Then a sudden calmness takes over his body. Now he waits for his mother to wake up. She wants to be with her until her last breath of life. Every second counts.