I heard of this place before.
They told me that all who come here
seek shelter from the noise and the chaos
that surrounds the everyday happenings in the concrete jungle.
I left everything behind and came to start over
in this little emptiness of nothing.
This place is small,
sheltered,
vaccant and
hollow,
as though the only companionship I have is
the echo of my footsteps across the wooden floorboards.
But given what had recently transpired–
it will do.
The house is simple.
It has one bedroom,
a living room with a phonograph thrown in and
a tiny little kitchen with a sink that faces the window.
There is a small patch of land in the back
that left remnants of what used to
blossom and thrive beautifully
under the loving care of one with a green thumb.
I thank my porter who responded with a grunt
as he heaved my bags onto the path,
tipped his hat and drove away.
The rumbling sound of his engine
gradually faded as he drove off
and I was soon left to the company of cicadas
as they bid adieu to the sun to welcome the moon.
I lug both my bags into the house and
carefully transport them up to my room.
Most of my things are brand new
save for whatever I managed to salvage
after the incident.
I unpack my things
and remove the padding–
newspaper, bubble wrap and all.
I hang up my clothes and
do best to make my new bedroom
feel just like home.
And in a tiny corner
in the wooden clothes cupboard
I gently place the most painful
item I managed to salvage–
a pair of half-charred baby shoes,
once worn.
