massage failed

the moon was persistent in painting the light-deprived streets of camp aguinaldo with its beams. as my hands pressed its way from my father’s back down to his feet for massage, i saw from our window how moonbeams tried their best to penetrate areas still embraced with darkness.

i tried my best to connect with my father’s nerves by exerting extra pressure. every ounce of oil spread across his back entails a hope of reconciliation; reconciliation between a father and son’s sensibility over each other’s feelings. each stroke i made was filled with hopes that he might understand me as a person. each press was an attempt to express my appreciation towards his being a provider, my pity on our miscommunications, my rants over his being insensitive and inattentive over me and my sister’s feelings, and my grief over our failures of recognizing and knowing each other well.

the moon did a god job in exposing the shards of the broken beer bottles exposed in the street, in illuminating the uprooted tree at the back of the gymnasium where 2 children died years ago and in showing the way to the walking soldiers drowned in alcohol.

from our 4th floor government-provided pseudo condominium unit, i saw how the moon took the job of the electric sans light posts on the road. i saw its attempts to manifest its light over a city hidden under the blankets of the night. the moon’s sincerity of intention to show and uncover the secrets of the dark was evident, but its limitations were more visible from the top.

the smoke and drink sessions of the teen minors in the neighborhood successfully evaded the moon’s inquisitive beams by staying inside the abandoned truck on the street. dogs and cats feasted on the freshly-dumped garbage bags under the tree on the corner of the street, a few meters away from the gymnasium. silhouettes of shadows of sleeping soldiers on duty decorated the windows of the nearby office.

after minutes of establishing connection to the nerves, my father’s muscles relaxed, which meant rest for my fingers. a soft snore from him indicated the closure of the connection. the slight numbness of my hands told me that my appreciation, my pity, my rants and my grief all failed to strike a nerve.

looking back at the window, i reckoned that in its fullest form, the moon does wonders on earth. no doubt it’s a good source of light but it can never surpass the sun.

having a tree minute discourse with my father a day is an achievement for me. years back, my father and i had a supposed to be open-minded conversation over our various issues. right after i aired my stand, he immediately concluded the discussion and made it appear that i was wrong all along. since then, it occurred to me that my father speaks of infallible words and that a decent conversation is a farfetched idea.

lately, i’ve realized that my masseur skills were not enough to compensate for my lack of courage to spark up a simple conversation.

a simple massage could have said much, but it does not guarantee understanding. there’s also the risk of sending the wrong signals. a wrong press in a nerve could be fatal.

*****************************
nothing related:

q: you have the face of an angel but the mouth of a fishmonger from brixton. how come?

a: are you accusing brixton fishmongers of being ugly? ha! anyway, why must "pretty" girls (i'm not saying i am)
but all demure and nice? and ugly girls can sprout vulgarities just because they look bad? thats a thrashy stereotype!

-from the blogger xiaxue