It’s the early afternoon, when the sun is at its highest point, sending its rays to the field that is stretched across the vast space of land. The sizzling heat is too intense you can see the actual waves dancing in the emptiness.
A boy, seemingly a teenager, had stopped her, placing a firm hand on the handlebar of her bike and telling her something while pulling the bike away from her.
“I’ll just borrow this for a short while,” he’d said. “I’ll give it back. Don’t worry.”
All she was able to do against his force was frown—frown at the boy, who looked too persistent, and then frown at her bike as it was being pulled away. The boy continued to nod quickly, a small smile plastered on his face, or at least that’s what it looked like to her. He repeated his words, and she started nodding hesitantly. And so, she just watched as her bike traveled down the pathway, leaving her behind and abandoned in an empty sunlit field.
She finds herself sitting on an old wooden fence while crunching on some roasted peanuts she’d collected from the market from a kind-looking old man, who thought she was pretty. The peanuts were too salty for her taste, yet she savored each one, slowing chewing and swallowing, taking her time as if she had the most of it.
Rarely any vehicles pass by her, yet when the ground shakes a little, she recognizes the engine of a car. An old-looking, red minivan slows to a stop, coughing out clouds of grey smoke. A young man jumps out and aggressively opens the hood of the car, only to let out even more smoke. He coughs and slams his car shut. This is when he notices her presence. His eyes catch hers watching him, so she quickly diverts her eyes somewhere else. She pops a peanut in her mouth and focuses on the crunchiness instead.
She watches the grain field as it dances with the breeze, and she imagines a song playing in the background. It sways back and forth, each grain following the other’s pattern, creating synchronized motion, making her lose herself to their harmonized dance.
The fence shakes below her, and she feels it weigh down a little. The young man takes a seat a good five feet, or so, next to her. She takes a look at his face; he squints against the sunlight, looking ahead of him, where his vehicle parks, as if in disappointment. He intertwines his fingers together and lets his thumbs rotate around each other anxiously. When she looks back up at his face, he’s looking at her too. Instead of looking away like she’s supposed to, she continues to stare. When he doesn’t speak, she stretches her arm, paper bag in hand, offering some salty peanuts to him. He frowns at the bag and then at her. Her arm had started to ache when he finally looked away.
She proceeds to munch on her snack to distract herself from looking at him. However, she steals another glance. His dark auburn hair gleams against the light, and it lies smoothly over his forehead, almost covering his eyes entirely; his nose slants perfectly straight; his lips are puckered and are fuller than a man’s should; he wore a half navy, half white button-down dress shirt with dark jeans; his white shoes shake back and forth against the wood of the fence.
Is he anxious? She wonders. Perhaps it’s about his broken car. Or maybe it’s far more serious, far deeper than a broken car. His hand finds their way to the paper bag lying on her lap, stealing three salty peanuts. Even if they were too salty, he doesn’t show it. He starts talking. Maybe he asked a question. She doesn’t know; she was distracted by the shape of his ear: it took weird twists and turns like a complicated maze.
A labyrinth of questions she beholds.
Did he ask about the weather? She still doesn’t know, so she nods. He raises an eyebrow at her, and she can’t tell if he finds her amusing or strange.
He continues to talk, his lips moving slowly, allowing a short pause between each word and the other. His thumbs continue with their pattern of motion. His voice is neither too loud nor too quiet, but he speaks softly; he sighs a lot too, like there’s something heavy resting over his shoulders, making it harder for him to speak comfortably.
“Nothing ever goes as expected,” he says. “You cannot plan for everything.”
A warbler visits uninvited. She watches it lands on the fence a good distance away from them. She once learned that warblers have sweet voices, that they sing pleasant songs. However, and so she has learned, they are often too shy to sing in front of people. She wishes to listen to it. And perhaps the little bird does not acknowledge their presence because it starts to sing. Beautiful symphonies float about her, and she closes her eyes for a moment, visualizing colors so vibrant and so happy, blinking to the rhythm.
When she opens her eyes, she sees gray—gray smoke that reminds her of the young man next to her, talking to her, complaining to her.
A storyteller, he seems to be, speaking nonchalantly of the hardships that have come his way. He speaks of breakups and breakdowns, old relationships and forgotten affairs, lost families and unwanted friends. And she looks at him with wonder.
A labyrinth of questions she beholds.
The warbler continues to sing, and it’s like he’s singing along with it. He sings about problems, burdens, and responsibilities. Sadness and despair. Loneliness.
A young man he is, walking down a path to the unknown.
“You cannot plan for everything.”
Unwanted. Unneeded. Utterly useless.
An expression so gloom lies on his face, a burden so heavy rests upon his shoulders, a life so conflicted stands against him, a world so troublesome envelops him, a past so tragic haunts him, a future rather unknown awaits him.
1, 2, 3, ring the melodies of the warbler that has now taken up the courage to move closer to them. 4, 5, 6, reverberate the tunes into her ears and through her head, painting brighter colors and drawing more intricate shapes, filling the empty field with the most beautiful of flowers—jasmines and daisies, lilies and roses—and butterflies that flutter all around them, bringing her ever so close to him so she can continue to listen and listen and listen.
And it’s like a million warblers had started singing all at once as they soar about and lift something heavy off his chest, making him feel weightless. He suddenly begins offering a lighter aura; his feet stop shaking, and his thumbs stop rotating around each other anxiously; he straightens his back further and takes a big breath of fresh air before exhaling it slowly, the frown abandoning his face and a new expression takes residence, a more welcoming one. Perhaps all he truly needed was an ear to be offered, a listener, a companion…she does not know; she feels happier, nonetheless. Grateful.
Grateful she is to have had such company and to have offered a similar one, to have shared the bag of salty peanuts, to have lent an ear, although lacking.
Who knows if she were of any help to the young man anyway?
Perhaps all he discussed was trivial matters; perhaps he really just asked about the weather and continued on that topic; or perhaps he just kept it at that, saw her nod unknowingly and so he stopped talking. She wouldn’t know.
Perhaps the old man at the market gave her the peanuts not because he thought she was pretty, but because they were too salty to sell. She wouldn’t know. Perhaps her bike will never return for it was stolen, not borrowed. She wouldn’t know. The boy might’ve as well been calling her names and she wouldn’t have known.
Perhaps the warbler has not made a single sound, has not sung a tune, and has not offered any melodies all afternoon, naturally timid of having an audience.
She feels her hearing aid in the front pocket of her cross-body. It’s been ringing in her ear, making a beeping sound that stuck through her skull. And so she’d taken it off for the day till she consults her doctor.
She couldn’t help but wonder with curiosity, though, how soft might his voice be?
Is it like the feeling of silk on the palm of your hands?
Is it like the warmth of a blanket on a winter night?
Is it like the way her mother used to run her fingers through her hair as she hums a song, surely lovely, and whispers a prayer, surely earnest?
Or is it like the sound of a shy warbler that must warm hearts, soothe souls, and ease pains and troubles off people’s lives?
She does not know. She cannot understand.
How can something so pleasant to the ear, so kind to the heart, so peaceful to the soul not be constantly heard? Such harmonies should be confidently sung to every passerby, yet timidity and fear tend to confine one’s stories, hide one’s personality, and envelop one’s nature to express. Or so she used to believe before this day.
As told by many, expression is communication. However, even if we are incapable of expressing, we can always listen more to connect further than it appears possible, to perhaps lift something heavy off someone’s chest, to change an expression that is gloomy and aloof to one that is brighter and more amiable.
And as the warbler soars over her like a paper plane drifting in the wind, she finds purpose.
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