Dreaming....

The rows and rows of cubicles were laid out in a mesmerizing maze. There were no chairs and no computers. The acrid smell of new carpet was everywhere. I walked the rows slowly, glancing here and there at the people standing, staring numbly at their hands. The all looked the same. Headsets perched on dark hair, small noses, high cheekbones, brown skin, mouths in a permanent smile. I knew they weren't mannequins, but they seemed like it. Plastic.

I made my way to three computers lined up on a low table. My co-worker stood behind the table talking on his cell phone. He smiled at my approach. I climbed the three steps to the slightly raised dais. He turned off his phone, gesturing expansively to the big, high-ceilinged room.

"What do you think?" He asked.

"It's wonderful! I don't know how I can improve on what you've already done here," I replied.

"I feel like it's unfinished," he said with a sigh and a look of deep disappointment.

"Well, let's talk statistics then. What is the expected service level? What kind of contract have you signed? The facility is state of the art. So you've got the tools to do a fantastic job."

I looked out the tall windows at the skyscrapers impaling the tropical sky, low clouds gathered at their tops. I wanted to breathe that air, to bask in the Manila humidity. My co-worker sat down on the floor next to the long table and started sorting a tall pile of papers muttering about contracts and SLA. He was preoccupied, so I wandered the lines of cubicles again.

"It's time to go, Theresa," you said from behind me. Your big hands rested gently on my shoulders.

I sighed, glancing down at my black skirt and heels. At least I was appropriately dressed. We walked to the stairs and quickly down them. The cab took us to the old house. I stepped out and walked to the top of the hill. Things looked different now. The street below was paved and the eroded sides of the hill were covered smoothly in grass. I laughed as my son ran nimbly down the hillside.

"What's funny?" You asked.

"This hill is the reason I have scars on the tops of my feet. It used to be gravel, and I slid down it on my knees once," I replied with a nostalgic smile.

You smiled back. I liked having you with me. You were gentle, and I knew I would be emotional soon. We made our way to the house and my mother met us on the lawn. She hugged you.

"I'm so glad you're here," she said, and you laughed. I knew this was your first meeting, and I wondered why she was acting like she had known you for years. Then I saw the crowd behind her and understood that she felt caught out. I refused to apologize for someone else's prejudice.

"Come," my mother said.

We walked to the stairs surrounded by that judgmental crowd. My brother stood next to me. His hair was long and a smile creased his face setting off his perfect teeth. I wanted to hate him, but this wasn't how I hated him. I hated him bald and angry. Like Sampson's strength, maybe his joy was in his hair.

I saw you go up the stairs. The rest of the crowd went down. I followed the crowd to a room filled with folding chairs. I knew we had plenty of time, but I was impatient for you to be beside me. I felt naked and unprotected without you. I sat on the empty back row, pulled out my phone, and quickly texted.

"Where are you?"
"In broom closets and cupboards. I know my way out. I'm just taking my time."
"Will you be coming down soon?"
"Once I've finally found the roof. I want to see the sky before being buried."
"You're not being buried, love."
"This funeral is in a basement."
"Why did you come?"
"I'm writing a paper on the words people use at funerals."
"Oh."

The words kept scrolling on my screen, your answers sometimes coming before I could send the questions. All around me the basement full of chairs filled also with people. I was surrounded. I felt suffocated. My joy-filled brother I hated sat in front of me. Beside him was my long-haired friend. They spoke in laughs and words I couldn't understand. It sounded like music.

My long haired friend leaned back and hugged me. "Your aunt meant a lot to me," he said. "Thank you," I murmured.

You sat next to me then and I wondered if you had found the sky. You smiled warmly at my long-haired friend. "Brother," you said and you clasped hands and bumped shoulders.

You leaned back in your folding chair, and I heard it creak under your weight. You placed your warm hand on my thigh. My brother, who I loved and hated, reached back and moved your hand to my knee.

"What was that?" I asked him.

"It didn't belong there," he replied with a laugh, running his fingers through his hair. His joy fascinated me. I hadn't seen him like this in so long.

Someone at the front of the crowded room demanded attention, but I couldn't take my eyes off of my joyous brother. I glanced briefly at you, seeking wisdom in your dark gaze, but you were far away, tapping your fingers against my knee in an unknown rhythm, singing silently, your black eyes lost in memories I couldn't read.

I opened my own eyes then to the pre-dawn dark and murmured to the wall of your chest pressed against my cheek, "I dreamed you went with me to a funeral." Your voice was heavy with sleep as you replied, "I put the 'fun' in funeral."