Doomsday Comes For All

When I was young, I believed in a perfect life. I told myself that I was going to live the best life out of any person. I would grow up, achieve my dreams, get married young, and reach a hundred years old. I was naive, foolish, and still had much to learn. 

As a child, I never smiled. It wasn’t natural. At a young age, I watched my father die by his own hands. He was my hero, a person that I always looked up to, and nobody seemed to understand what he was really going through. At least, not in time. The gunshot still reverberates in my head to this day. A man who seemingly had it all was broken on the inside. He had many friends. His wife loved him more than anything else in the world. He wasn’t poor or lonely. He was a happy man. Or so we thought. Ever since then, I didn’t smile like I used to. It’s a phenomenon that my childhood friends asked me about. Why are you so angry all the time, Paris? You’re so weird, Paris. Can you at least pretend to be happy?

Eventually, I took their advice and smiled more often. But every single time, it wasn’t real. There was never any emotion behind it. I would only do it for the mere sake of it, only when I perceived it as a perfect time to do so, to show others I was happy, to prove it to them. In retrospect, I hated myself for doing it. I’ve done it as long as I can remember, for all the years of my life. 

When I was seven, I met Devan. We were playmates at every time of the day, and we couldn’t get enough of each other. Although quirky and strange, he was a boy I loved. So much that one day, I told him, “I will go to the store and get us a baby.” 

He agreed, thinking it was a great idea. “Ask your mother,” he said.

It would be such an excitement, and Devan had already agreed that it was a scenario he could live with. So I would help him. I went to my mother.

“Mommy, I would like to purchase a baby. Devan and I will have it. I’ll take care of it real good, I promise! Where can I get one?”

“Babies are not bought from a store, honey.”

“And so? Really?” I had thought so. It was such logical reasoning. Anything new and recently added I had not seen before in my house was from one. There had been a “baby,” section in the area, too. My lack of understanding was imminent, prudent, yet rational. 

“When you mail a letter to this specific address,” said my mother, “a stork will deliver.”

I was so excited that day, I ran to my room and began writing a letter. Dear Mister Stork, can you please give me and Devan a baby? We will take good care of it. I will make sure he or she grows up to be a good boy or girl. You can trust me! Love, Paris.

I handed it to my mother, hoping for the day the doorbell would ring and the baby would arrive. Dad would be so proud if he was here, seeing me all grown up, already taking care of a baby. I was really living that perfect life I had dreamed of from the very start.

But the doorbell never rang. The baby never came. So confused, I didn’t know why. I thought I was a bad girl, and the stork didn’t want to give me a baby. Angry at the world for this, I went to my mother’s room and messed up the pillows on her bed. That’s what I did whenever I was angry. Sometime that day, I ended up opening her drawers beside her bed, and I found my letter. It was so strange to me. Mom never puts anything in her drawers unless it’s important to her, something valuable she wanted to keep. Why would she keep my letter to Mister Stork in there? Why did she never send it?

Throwing a tantrum and drowning in my tears, I remember Devan being my consolation, holding me as I wept. He told me it was okay that we would never get a baby from the stork. At that point, I didn’t care anymore. I was glad that I had him.

When I was sixteen, I was probably the most resentful girl in the world. I cried when my mother and I got into an argument every single time. My safety was hiding under my hoodies and listening to music, wishing Dad was still around. Again, I never smiled in those days. 

“Here,” said Devan one day, dragging me somewhere while I had a hood over my eyes. He took it off me when we got there. Grass. Bleachers. Ah, this place. One would guess it easily. It was the school soccer field. It was probably a popular spot, but currently, we were the only ones there. It was especially great with such a nice view of the sunset, like how it was now. Oh, so this was what Devan wanted me to see. 

The bleachers were cold, unforgiving. A moment could never be too perfect, it seemed. I wished it were was false. I supposed it was just wet from the rain. The sunset was so magnificent, so earth-like. Of course, because the concept of a sunset was so human. The idea of the rays dimming, the ball of flame dipping into nothingness, into oblivion, into the earth itself. It was so unenjoyable to any other creature. Except for a human. Why was that so? I wished it wasn’t like that. I wished that animals too could see the wonder and magic and beauty of a sunset. But it would never be like that. The world was strange sometimes. But either way, there it was. In the sky, soon not to be. And the bleachers still cold as we watched it. Ah, that pesky detail kept nagging my head. Perfect moments were nonexistent, and they would always be. At least I had Devan. I was glad he had brought me here. A cute attempt to cure my chronic sadness, that’s what I saw it as. I perceived it as a perfect time to curve the corners of my lips upwards at him. He smiled back and wrapped an arm around me as we watched the sun go down.

When I was twenty, I went to a university to study. That’s what Mom told me to do. That’s what life told me to do. And I had to obey to get that perfect life I always dreamed of. Luckily, Devan was going to the same one. I should have been happy, but I’d take ages to reach that state ever again.

Shutting doors was something I had always done. After all, I was talented at it. Loneliness seemed to dictate my life in those days. I had decided then, the next time Devan would enter my dorm and ask what was wrong (I would like to say he seldom did but that would be a huge lie), I would hug my pillow to my face. There would be tears, maybe. I wouldn’t be ashamed if there were at this point.

“What’s wrong?” asked Devan. I knew he would come.

“Go away. I don’t want you near me anymore.”

The boy was stubborn, though. In the end, I would thank him for it. All he did that night was take a deep breath and exhale. I didn’t see him since my face was drowning in a pillow, but I felt him sit on my bed. Who knows what he did the whole time. Perhaps looked at the stars outside my dorm window all night. Twiddled his thumbs. Just not letting me be alone.

When I was twenty-five, things started to get better. I wasn’t necessarily happy, although at the most I was less sad. I married Devan and with our jobs right out of university, we planned to buy a house in the suburbs. From there, it was looking really close to that perfect life I had imagined.

“Congratulations! My sincere gratitude! My expression of love and pride! Compliments! Felicitations! Kind regards! Blessings! Good fortune! Best wishes! Respects! Best regards!”

Family or friends, all of them were equally annoying. The attention was unsatisfying. I didn’t want to take pride in holding a ring. I never wanted anyone to know at all. I wanted a quiet wedding, but Devan insisted, so I relented. It wasn’t all about me, now. I suppose that was the whole point of a ceremony like this.

In those days, things got tougher. There were bills to pay, jobs to be worked, and groceries to buy. I felt like I had lost the sense of wonder I used to have in the world. As a child, I used to think every new thing in my life was an adventure. Now, everything seemed a chore.

I would ask Devan, “How did we make a snowman, before?” And Devan would not be so interested in matters such as those anymore, yet I knew he should be. Then I would ask, “How did we use to do our snowball fights? How did we use to jump in the snow? How did we use to trip each other into the snow, and then make those fluttering angel figures?” He did not know, he did not know, he did not know, he would say. And all hope was lost until he would say, “How about we find out?”

Outside we went. And we did so quickly. And I would laugh every time Devan would throw the white, fluffy snow at me. The neighbours would think kids, then open the curtains to see a pair, us, as probable it was that we were the same age as they were. And dazzling confusion would overwhelm them. Yet they would not understand the true wonder and, dare I say it, happiness as us two. 

“I miss this,” I would say. Devan would agree. 

When I was thirty, three of them came over a bundle of years. This time, they didn’t come from a stork. Curse that stork anyway. I was satisfied with them, and Devan was too, but I still wouldn’t say happy. I still wouldn’t say I smiled much, even with them around. I was stern to them, which probably wasn’t a good first impression as a mother. Though children were what I had in mind for that perfect life I had imagined as a child, I was reluctant to have them in the household. Well, at first. It got better over time. And fine. They were cute, alright.

They reminded me of me. That smallness, that foolishness, that naivety. That child-like wonder for the world. I remembered it all so dearly, so fond of that distant past. They were made of flesh and bone, yet so not. They were more than that. Their minds would be empty voids at first, sullen and dark, pitiful. But then they would be filled with grand things, extraordinary things, wonderful things. That’s how it always begins, and how it would always be. We had an eldest son that we named Cecil. A middle daughter that we named Dalia. A youngest daughter that we named Violet.

When I was forty, and my children were growing up, I had a crisis. I realized I was late on my perfect life plan. I wasn’t an astronaut, or a famous singer, or a fashion model. I wasn’t rich and I wasn’t known by the world yet. How much time did I have left? Goodness, I was beginning to panic. And I had good reason to, as well. 

Devan was so busy. He was busily mattering his sole existence in matters of no matter as if they mattered. Like how much his boss liked his presentation, or if we were able to pay for groceries next month after taxes and if we had enough for a patio set in the backyard. Bah! I didn’t know why he was so engrossed in things that I didn’t care so much about. Things that never mattered to me as much as my children, and how they were going to move out soon, and that I didn’t have a single hit on the top charts, or appeared in any magazines, or, or, touched my foot on the moon, or done anything, really. Oh, no.

That perfect life would never be achievable. It pained me to know that, finally, after maturing all these years. I remember this one vivid night which still haunts me. I was crying in our bedroom. Devan, of course, asked me what was wrong. I could have told him all those things. I could have told him that our children were going to leave us soon and that I hadn’t really accomplished anything in my life. Or that something just wasn’t right. But I didn’t. I said, “I don’t know.” And I didn’t know why I said that. But I did. And I continued to sob that night.

When I was fifty, and our children had already left us to pursue their own perfect lives, Devan said this one thing which I still remember to this day.

“Oh no. We are getting old.”

It was all coming apart. My children. They were so old! How did they get this old? When did they get this old? I merely closed my eyes for one second! I thought to myself, I’m so old, I’m still so unwise, I’ve come so far yet gone nowhere at all. As time went on, it was getting harder to remember where I came from, my roots. Where did I start? Oh, yes, in a small town in the middle of nowhere, a single and lonely child with a loving mother and a dead father. I’ve done nothing in my life and I’ve accomplished nothing. And I’ve given birth to three offspring in a different city! I saw apparitions of my younglings in the household hallways, yet I knew where they were. On their own paths now, in their universities, and maybe with their own homes. Maybe even with their own children! How could I have missed all this? How long have I been gone? How long has it been since the beginning of my life? And most importantly, how long do I have left? 

How long does Devan have to go? How little or much will I see of my children’s children? How little or much will I see of Devan? How little or much will I see the light of day, or the dark of night, or the heavy rain or the thunder’s spite? How little or much will I know of what to come, what’s ahead in my life? And then comes that wave of nausea so fast that it’s unstoppable. 

When I was sixty, I couldn’t take it anymore. One day I told my dear husband, “Devan, promise me.” He listened carefully. I was barely strong enough to say my planned speech, but I pushed through anyway. “Promise me that our children, wherever they may be, whatever they may be doing, are safe. Promise me that they will be intact the next time they visit here, as well as the both of us, and also promise that they do visit. As soon as possible. I want them here now. I would kill a man tied to a chair if I had to, without regret or hesitation, and you know I don’t lie when I say such things. I want my children back. I want my children back now.”

He nodded. Those stupid, classic droplets again. They were back! Another appearance they made, this time on both our eyes. But he smiled and gasped, no, it was a gasp of joy. A laugh! He said no word, merely just embracing me instead. Though I knew he promised. Oh, indeed alright he did. He wouldn’t not. I knew how much he wanted all that I did, how much he wished every single day nothing but the best for Cecil, Dalia and Violet. Such preciousness. Such integral aspects of my life, as any child would be for their parents. It was just that way. It was just a part of existing that this would happen, that they would be the centre of everything. It wasn’t such a bad thing as well, no. It wasn’t. It wasn’t at all.

Then the fast-forwarding to the time when Devan picked up the phone, calling each of them, reluctant voices on the other end. 

“Dad, ugh, why must you request this now?” said Dalia. 

“I am very busy, though I know this must be important. Is Mom okay?” asked a voice that could only be identified as Cecil’s.

“Oh! Oh, my. Yes. Yes. Indeed, alright, alright, I’m not a dastard, I will okay? Just hang for a few more days, if you will. A few more days, yes. I will come! I will be quick!” said sweet Violet.

I was in a state of disbelief when they arrived. There they were, at the door, and they all immediately reminisced of when they all bounded down the steps of this household together. Of the days when they all played and talked and comforted each other about boyfriends and girlfriends that broke their hearts. 

And they did not come alone! I was so astonished to see younglings. Not just any! They were my grandchildren. They were tiny and built to be adored with their round and stuffy cheeks and their goo-gah esoteric language. Over the years I cared for them as I did for their parents, every time they visited in the summer. They were a sight for sore eyes, and maybe for once, I was beginning to feel a spark of that so-called feeling known as happiness.

Now I am eighty, and I am old and weak. Time has passed and Devan is gone. It’s been a haze, and I don’t remember how it happened. One moment he was with me and the next, he wasn’t. For a while, I grieved and wondered if I was doomed to die while sad. I missed him dearly and wondered if I was next. 

Fortunately for me, there’s talk about the end of the world. They say it’s going to happen tomorrow. I won’t be able to see the next light of dawn. No one will. Which is why this whole time I’ve been thinking about my entire life, sitting in this chair in our living room, relaxing in the heat of the summer’s day. I wanted to remember everything from the very start. I wanted to thank everyone that helped me live my life, although not that perfect one I had dreamed of.

My grandchildren are with me. Their mothers and fathers are out of the house, probably indulging in things necessary to be considered an adult. There’s Cecil’s teenaged daughter, May, a fine young lady who helps me with walking up the stairs. Then the little one, Tim, the son of Dalia. There were a lot more, but, well, I suppose age takes a toll on your memory whether you like it or not. But they were all with me now, and I was satisfied.

While thinking of the end of the world, I was glad it gave me enough time to live. Right now, the television is on, and all my grandchildren are watching it. There’s a lot of talk on the news about the coming of the end, about some unexplainable event that’s going to kill the universe. At least no one is acting concerned. My grandchildren are watching the screen and pretending like nothing is wrong. As if they just want to live their last day regularly.

Looking back on it, I realize now that I had given up on that ideal perfect life I had as a child, only to give it up for something even greater. An imperfect life. One that’s not some child’s magical fantasy where everything goes right, rather, one that’s real. That’s the best life. One where everything doesn’t go the way you wanted, but you’re still content because of who you’ve got and what you’ve done, knowing that nobody’s going to live the same life you had. In the end, I suppose I got what I wanted.

When evening came, May helped me get to my bed. I knew this was going to be the last time she would do this. The end of the world was tomorrow. I’m glad that it doesn’t look like she cares all that much. She helped me lie on my bed and put a few blankets over me. 

I said, “I’m going to miss you, dear.”

“What are you talking about, Grandma?”

“Why, don’t you know? Everyone has been talking about it for a while now. The end of the world is happening tomorrow. This will be the last time I’ll see you.”

For a moment she looked confused, although I didn’t know why. I also didn’t know what she meant with what she said next. 

“Grandma, are you okay? Of course, we will. The world isn’t ending tomorrow.”

Perhaps she’s in denial. It’s alright to dream, I thought to her. I’m not sure she heard me. She said goodnight and left, and I was getting ready to close my eyes for the last time. 

But before I did, I heard a little boy’s footsteps come into my room. It was little Tim, and I was glad to see him.

“Hi Grandma,” he said. “Can you tell me a story?”

“I’m too tired, dear.”

He smiled. “Okay. Maybe tomorrow, then. Grandma?”

“Yes?”

“I love you, Grandma.”

Along with a quirky but sincere goodnight the little person bounded out the room to join his cousins. And I, dare would I do so, raised the corners of my lips, forming a smile. Although this time, I did not do it because it was a perceived perfect time to do so. I did it because I wanted to. And that was all that made the difference.

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