Blink

January 4, 2008

We’ve often use the phrase, “in the blink of an eye” to describe how fleeting moments are. But just how swift is a blink?

Granted my method is experiential because I’m too lazy to do research and I have no idea how to calculate the speed of a blink, but let’s say you’re riding astride a motorcycle at 60 kilometers per hour and along the way an insect or flying shrapnel of pebble hits you in the eye.

From the time the insect touches the tip of your eyelash at a breakneck speed and passed through the 1/20 of an inch of condensed space and into your eyes, you would already have blinked. In that split-second you realize how quick a blink is.

I will chronicle here two tales about the blink:

 

THE DANCE

As far as the standards of beauty go, my high school classmate Melanie admittedly wasn’t even in the top ten. She was about five feet tall, chubby and plump cheeks that stuff toys could only wish their lucky stars to possess, and velvety hair that fell an inch from her shoulders.

She sat near the large windows of our classroom. Against the russet chair, she was like chalk on blackboard, particularly when the light pranced and skipped her skin, fearing a complete contact of the sun’s rays, even when filtered by the verdant curtains, would leave a mark.

My spot in the middle row was about seven chairs diagonally from her. Only seven chairs, no more than 20 feet, but that expanse seemed to stretch forever.

In that magical space, we danced with our eyes. From the teacher to her, my eyes and concentration darted. In most days, the teacher lost because I was staring at her in an attempt to commit her features to my memory so when I lie in my bed at night, she would be there with me dancing in the shadows of my room. 

At night, I fashioned scenarios — of her and me against monsters and black knights, always I was the hero and I got the girl; of conversations as her heart fluttered in obeisance to my witty lines; of her jerk of a boyfriend and I smacked his lips with my fist.

But his boyfriend wasn’t really an asshole and I wasn’t really a hero.

Our dance went on for several weeks. As she quickly realized what my game was, she stared back when our eyes met; perhaps defying me to lay my feelings at her feet, but I might as well have crowed in the morning since I had the heart of a chicken.

In August, two months into our lessons, we were informed that Melanie, along with four other classmates, was elevated from the second to the first section. Ever since I got the news, I practiced in my head several times how I would stare her down.

A day prior to her transfer I decided to suck it in, stare back and be a man. That day she was going to know who I am and she was going to respect me for it goddamit!

The lessons began. In my peripheral vision I could barely make out her profile, so I shifted and there she was. Dust mites waltzed to the radiant rays, creating a dreamlike quality to the scene. In the miasma, she was a vision.

My whole consciousness gravitated towards her and either I went deaf all of a sudden or the teacher’s voice was muted by some cosmic remote control.  As my heart pounded my chest, and forgetting what I was meant to do, I gawked.

A hundred times I’ve seen it in movies and played it in my head, but nothing prepared me for the moment when her face slowly turned towards me and stared back.

As our eyes met for an eternity, I blinked and lost her.

 

THE BED

My Lola was 96 when old age caught up with her. It was one of those innocent falls where she landed hard on her hips on the concrete floor. We thought she was going to come out of it like she always did while she rewards us with her toothless laugh which never failed to melt my heart.

But five days later, complaining of writhing pain on her hips, we admitted her to the hospital. X-rays revealed that her hips were broken but more importantly, doctors told us, her organs were failing. The old just don’t have the recuperating powers of the young.

As it turned out, it’s not anymore an option of whether she lived or died, it’s a question of where we wanted her to die.

So we brought her home, rented a hospital bed and oxygen tank and made it as comfortable for her as possible. The doctors’ prognosis was that she would die in weeks, if not days, but like the stubborn Lola that she was, she refused to fade away without a fight.

I came home from work and there she was stretched out in that indifferent bed. She could no longer talk by that time and her back was festered with sores but whenever she’s conscious, she would glance at me when I come home. A glimmer of recognition flashed through those eyes and I deluded myself again into thinking that she’s going to be alright. 

Her tears were the only indication of the pain that wracked her whole body.

The Christmas holidays were depressing. How could we join the world in celebration when my Lola was lying there, crying silently from the torture?

A day after Christmas, as we were talking at the dinner table, I suddenly got the urge to get up and check on my Lola. I turned on the lights and noticed her belabored breathing so I called everybody else to her bedside knowing something was wrong.

I was stroking her forehead, whispering to her, comforting her, goading her to just rest and how we are going to be just alright. In a few seconds, her breathing got shallow. And in one long gasp of air, perhaps seizing a piece of humanity on her journey to immortality, she expired.

I did not blink even once and will forever share with her that ephemeral moment between life and death.

 
Months might seem forever when you’re having fun but weighed against eternity, it’s just one blink.

And after I gathered my senses, she was already gone.