home           about           blog           archives           domain           exits           ask


One fifty, the clock boldly declared. Ten minutes before the next dose of medicines. I had closed the book I was reading and looked at his sleeping figure. I changed his shirt an hour ago when it got soaked with sweat. He was lying on his back, his mouth half-open. His snores, worsened by his asthma, puncutated the silence.

The sight was the same as this morning, but now all I could feel was love. I don't know why. For all his idiosyncrasies, for all his qualities I didn't like, I couldn't seem to hate him. When I saw him lying on the bathroom floor, feverish, when he held me tightly, his breath searing my neck, I knew right then and there that I really loved him.

Maybe he has grown on me. Maybe I'm stupid, too, for feeling this way. Or maybe I shouldn't care and just concentrate on loving him the way he loved me, even though he didn't please me all the time.

He kicked the covers off the bed again. I covered his chest then kissed his forehead. I prepared his next dose of medicines as he opened his eyes, softly asking for the time.

(excerpt from "Epiphany" by M. Protacio de Guzman)