Honey, It's Alright
Hugs and three Phenomena
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Dear Bolu,
I write this seated at the edge of my bed on a cold and dry morning. The wind beats threateningly against my aluminium roof as if I owed a debt to the elemental gods. To the best of my knowledge, there isn’t any such debt because I give my sweat as an offering to the sun when she burns like wildfire. And I do not scorn or curse the clouds when they pour and drench my cheap clothes. Indeed, I haven’t been out much this past week, and little sacrificial sweat has risen to the heavens, but that shouldn’t trigger the anger of the gods, should it? I wouldn’t be surprised if it did since many of these gods are supposedly impetuous and tempestuous. Anyway, it’d take more than a few gusts to blow my roof over, so I’m not in any real danger. My curtains also dance happily with each attempt of the wind to sneak in through the window. At once, they’re pregnant with balls of air and, moments later, flat as an ironing board. I wish on mornings like this that I was offshore, sitting below deck and fearing for my life; swaying as the ship sways to the terrible rhythm of a storm; frantically writing you a letter that’d be swallowed in the sea; swearing that if I made it out of this odyssey alive, yours would be the door I wash up on. I wish.
It’s a good morning altogether, but I don’t feel so good. My mouth tastes like dissolved paracetamol because the combination of drugs I’m taking to remedy my ill health is essentially paracetamol. I’ve mastered the art of swallowing pills without tasting them or having them touch my tongue, but my skills failed me today, and my mouth has been a source of irritation since that mishap. I shudder and shake every time the taste resurfaces, and I just want it to pass. I want this illness to pass. For the last week or so, I’ve also felt a deep need for a hug. Whether the illness or the wave of romantic affections sweeping the air is to blame for this, I don’t know. I’ve just felt I would like it very much if I got a long, reassuring hug, and I haven’t found one yet. It's funny how the things I've run from now seem like the things that completeness could come from. Oh, what wouldn't I give for a hug that says, "honey, it's alright"? What wouldn't I give for someone to call me Philo again?
What? I don't know.
No one calls me Philo anymore. Philo—short for Philomena—was what I went by in our old house many years ago. In school, I was called something else. But everyone close to my residence called me Philo, and it was the fault of none other than our neighbour, Uncle T. Uncle T's wife's name was Philomena, so he fondly called me Little Philo because we shared the same head shape. And somehow, everyone stuck to calling me Philo. I never particularly liked the name, but I didn't disapprove of it either. It was just fine. That name is now, however, lost to my childhood and relegated to memory. One curious thing about names is that they don’t exist outside of the people who call us by them. If we all collectively forgot that ants were called ants, then ants would no longer refer to ants, would it? And so Philo is not in use anymore. Do you have names like that? Names no one call you by anymore because they’ve gone? Names that have been forgotten, even by yourself? Whatever shall we do with those names, dear friend?
What? I don’t know.
I do know that I liked Uncle T. When he didn’t call me Little Philo, he called me Philo the Phenomena, and it made me feel super. Admittedly, I didn’t know what a “phenomena” was back then, but I knew it was a good thing. It was something to be proud of, and I liked it very much. Now that I think more seriously about it, I suppose Philo the Phenomenon would have been a more appropriate name, seeing as I am singular and not a three-headed incarnation from Greek mythology. But Philo the Phenomena certainly has a more excellent ring, so I’m not too bothered about the grammatical inappropriateness. Uncle T was good to me. He was genuine. He had a protruded belly, which contributed to his loud Norseman laughter, and didn’t he laugh a lot?! He was pleasant. And I think of him fondly.
Uncle T was also the first lesson in heartache that I observed. He’d been trying for kids with his wife, my namesake, for a long time. After a few miscarriages, she finally carried one to term but sadly died during childbirth. The child lived, but it broke him. His laughter changed from a roar to a cackle, and I stopped seeing much of him. Not long after, he lost his job and usually spent his days in and around bars and betting houses. When I saw him, it was in shades and shadows. It was as if he was ashamed and he was hiding from me. It was sad. The last time we met was the night before we moved out of that city. He paid us a visit, and we were delighted to see him. He was clearly loved, and I hope he knew that. He was so loved. He brought his year-old daughter along. “Ah, you’re no longer Little Philo; you’re now Big Philo”, he said as I greeted him in the living room. And we all laughed. It was great to see him laugh again. His laughter wasn’t the loudest it’d ever been, and I put that down to his stomach that was now less rotund, but it was genuine still. He talked with my folks, and they had a great time. I played with the new Little Philo a little and gave her and her dad tiny hugs just before they left. It was a good night.
I haven't heard anything about him since we left, but I hope he's doing okaay now. I hope his laughter is as loud as I remember. He named his daughter after his wife, but I hope he sometimes calls her mine. Philo the Phenomena. And I hope we both find hugs when we need them, dear friend. I hope.
Fin.
P.S.
This one is a nod to Gregory Alan Isakov’s Honey, It's Alright.
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Write you soon, merci!
- Wolemercy