By the Rivers of Babylon

You used to plunge deeply into chasmic river waters to elude life, but it was the cold you loved. Heavy whiffs and sharp shivers as you leave the carcass of your naïveté.

For six years, we relished every beat—from riding bikes and playing catch to baiting fish and camping in the wild. You laughed at the bald spot in my beard; I baked you burnt pizza every night. And although your crayons were extremely tired, you still drew superheroes on the walls all the time. But on that 19th dawning of June 2000, the wind carried you away.

The bright hues became shadows, the sunshine turned to mist, and the evergreens faced demise. It was callous. It was heartless. It was cold.

I became known as the crazed man who's got a missing son. For losing you, they loathed me. Unendingly, they taunted me. Words fired like painful ammunition, drilling my heart and maiming my bones but never leading me to my funeral. So, I tried finding traces of you.

In the attic were remnants of your existence. The fishing rod you used to love, the books you promised to read, and the teddy bear we named Alex. They were all there, waiting to be devoured by dust.

With the echoes of your voice bouncing back and forth in my ears, I faltered into the hardwood floor. And even though I locked the door, your memories kept jolting loose.

Right then, my periphery flashed your countenance. Your eyes were the softest brown, infused with green as if they held the new spring growth inside—there were no glimmers of resentment, only flickers of light. Your voice was that of untroubled bluebirds singing rhythms in the sycamore tree, free-flapping their wings at dusk. Your presence was like an amulet against mishaps, sliding me away from the dumps of torment and my biggest fears.

"You were my angel, and I'd jeopardize everything just so I could hold you close," I muttered, embracing Alex as I wept in that garden of thorns.

Bearing the baggage of melancholia behind my spine, I circled around Windemere for answers to your mystery. So, I came across all the fucking cons you could ever name: from fortunetellers to false prophets, from cowboys to counterfeit saints. Their answers were cruel shrugs in a hundred fleeting moments. But the clockmaker in the tunnel believed otherwise. He hinted that the key was to look for you ahead of time.

On my next visit, he handed me a wooden attaché case. It was the color of forest browns like it had been made from a tree that felled in the autumn winds, one nature gave to us. Its glossy surface was intimidating, but the enticement made me open it. It was a complexity. Clocks as tiny as those in watches, designed as if it's a miniature version of what's inside Big Ben's clock. The longer I stared, the more haunting it looked.

Whittled deeply into the timber was a text that revealed what I presume to be instructions.

"One turn of the knob, thirty-three years you'll traverse. The past is to the left, and the future is to the right."

From 2000, I set afoot in the fall of 2033. With Alex, I started wandering in a place of what I thought to be the future Windemere, dystopian and crestfallen. The day was "cold, dark, and dreary," as if I was living in the realm of Longfellow's The Rainy Day. The weather was nonstop. There was no sunshine nor fervency to sweeten the autumn spirit, and the wind was "never weary."

The pathways to the riverbank were devastated. The ripples of the water were depressed. And I sat there for four lousy hours that felt like forever, waiting for you to call my name.

The dictionary held no word like home, so I looked for a burrow to steal a nap. I scoured Windemere the ensuing daylights, but got caught in Poseidon’s dead end—bodies of water here and there. I learned that the rivers had drowned the suburbs into oblivion, and the sirens robbed our home.

For months, I rummaged through the imprints of the past, not giving up the thought of you being here. So, I commenced at the carnival. The vegetation had finally ruled over the place, but the ruins stood still, for the dead don't die, and the diamonds last forever. We used to be here for the vivid hues and the song, except for the costly rides. But I knew you were glad, for the cotton candy was good enough for you. So, on fireworks night, I gave you my sweet embrace—right next to heaven's stars where rainbow blossoms glare their light.

The winter came in a faint tune bequeathed by black-cradled stars. The river appeared still, yet she rushed under the thinnest of ice, awaiting the delicate touch of the sun.

Spring was my usual bearer of hope, the first verse to a song. But that time, the butterflies went into hiding, the bluebirds ceased singing, and the constellations started giving in.

I awaited the sun, but the summer died a natural death. Four seasons passed me by, and my son, I endeavored everywhere. I combed through the mountaintops where we used to camp. I scraped through the tail end of the country, through the little crossroads of this mad, mad world—until time has worn me out.

Days turned to months, and months turned to years. I mourned. I suffered. I endured.

They used to say time mends our wounds, but mine didn't; they festered. They turned me into a lonesome beast—brave but with no one to protect.

Today marks the 19th dawning of July 2066. I have been here for over three decades, hoping to catch sight of the boy I failed to guard.

And as a failure, I humbly sat by the riverbank, ready to meet St. Peter of the Pearly Gates. The silence was deafening, and the ripples of the water were still depressed. Shivers all around my spine, crimson all around my shirt. I may be a fool for making romance with demise, but God knows you were worth fighting for.

You held me by your hand as you hummed to our favorite song—you knew it was too late. With clueless tears in your eyes, this must have been a nightmare for you, one you thought you never thought you'd wake up with.

All this time, you traveled from 2000 directly to 2066. I never knew I just had to turn the knob twice to the right to get to you. But at least I'm with you now.

I hope you know that your eyes were as they used to be. Except now, they're packed with terror and gloom like they had the look of ravens flying in a cloud-filtered dusk after a perfect storm. Please understand that your Dada missed you, and with all his strength, he tried to find you.

Be brave as you face the days alone, and I apologize for failing twice in a row. Be at peace with my passing. I will be safe and sound once more. And in another life, my son, I will see you again.

So, come find me where the great blue herons run—where the land meets the waters, by the rivers of Babylon.

—

written by Vil Diente

illustrated by Juvirah May Abucejo

layout by Valerie Arnne Arevalo