He had slept for most of the flight, barely half-awake when the flight crew announced that the plane is landing in Newark Airport in a few minutes. This must have been the shortest flight he has flown to Newark. In the past it had always and almost to have taken forever.
"Welcome to Newark, Sir." It must have been the same man sent by the limo company. Same placard bearing his name. Same baggage claim area where people hassled to get their luggage and just too eager to hit the road. But something in him tells him it is different now. Whereas before, there were familiar faces and welcoming smiles in the crowd. Now, only cold and strange looks exist.
"Sir, which of those are your bags?" asked the limo man. He has none. He came only with his cane and a brown bag he hand-carried throughout the flight. The man then showed him the way to the black caddie.
"Could you please open my window a little so I can get fresh air?" He has his eyes closed while letting the fresh autumn air in. It has always felt like this. He remembered the first time he came to the cabin was way passed sunset and the air was cool also. They were singing along the way. There was initial confusion as to where they were headed but was assured by the voice on the phone that they are right on the directions and expected to be at the spa in another hour. This trip seems to be taking shorter than that. It must be because he is now so familiar with the road, he can even anticipate the turns and usual humps.
"How many times had he done this trip?" He thought to himself. He has actually kept his promise to come back every five years. Same time, always at the start of fall, same place, always at the cabin by the lake atop the mountain in Vernon. They started with 11 of them. How could he forget that first time? After more than 20 years, he saw those faces again. Oh how they couldn't let go of the night, even the early dawn was so embarrassed to show its face. It hid behind the clouds, not wanting to end the night for these revelers. But when finally dawn breaks, they were all facing the light seemingly oblivious to the passing night, simply welcoming the days before them. And the light revealed the colors of autumn - golden, red flames, purple, sweet tangerine -- forming like columns rising from the crystal waters below. Before them is wide canvass with nature busy painting its beauty -- coming slowly into form without a hand orchestrating the strokes.
The second time was as memorable as the first. There were a few who have heard of the first time and decided to join. They filled the cabin with the same laughter they heard several decades before - in the halls of the school, amidst whispers in the library nooks, atop the mountains of Dolores. What is it with them that brings out this laughter only when they are amongst each other? They had become so unfamiliar to their usual selves they needed to be here to re-discover the spirit that has given life to their dreams and aspirations before.
They have always set aside this date to come here in the mountains of Vernon. But soon less and less made it to Vernon. He remembered that frist time they missed a couple of them. It was painful when they learned of their passing. But like the autumn leaves, they have reached their full color and beauty before coming home to the ground. Those who showed up have more white hair than before. With lines creasing their faces. Swollen joints making it difficult to trek the road to the common bathhouse they shared, scaring each other on the way with stories about woods and witchcraft. They have always offered a moment of silence for those who did not make it. But each time, they promised to come back again in another 5 years. He would always wonder who would show up the next time . . . who would bid goodbye next.
"Ooops, sorry, sir!", apologized the caddie driver after they hit an abrupt hump unprepared. He was so deep in thought reminiscing those visits here that he didn notice the caddie entering the woods leading to the cabin. They never fixed this road. It must have gotten worst from before. There are deeper trenches left by the frequent rains. The hump has awakened him from his day dream.
"Please turn to cabin #25!" This is the same cabin they used again and again. The same one that leads to the lake. He can almost feel the chill when one time they plunged into the water one cold night."What the heck!",they thought. "Let's just do it!" After all those years of wanting but not trying. They turned themselves into kids au naturelle. It was the most liberating experience they have ever had. He remembered lying there on the ground, under the star - altogether and holding hands, asking the moon for warmth to dry their cold skin.
He heard the driver turned off the engine and opened the door for him. The man reached for his cane while laboring hard to get out the caddie. He couldn't get up easily after sitting down for so long. Half standing, he asked for his cane and headed toward the cabin.
The steps down the cabin are made more difficult now. Some chipmunks cross his path stopping to take a look at him, like he was familiar guest. He walked passed the front door, decided to take the entrance by the lake. He almost tipped over a log. A dead tree now stands where they used to get some shade before. Isn't this where they peed before? He remembered that it was the middle of the night when he felt the urge but did not want to go the bathhouse. He looked around and when nobody was looking, he helped himself like he had never done before. It sounded as though a rushing rain suddenly came to the mountains.
He soon reached the door fronting the lake. It was open like it had been waiting for him. There was this same rocking chair he sat on with her before. He reached for the chair, rested his cane on the floor and began to rock once more.
"Who's going to sing now? Gary, you sing another James Taylor favorite. How about Gia doing 'Certain Sadness.' Ok, it's Das' turn to churn his favorite Spanish guitar number. Swannie is ready for another song. But hey, Charlie has prepared an operetta. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-hahhhhhhhhhhh!" He can almost hear the music as before. In his lonesomeness, he can almost feel their company. To his left was the same fireplace they couldn't get lighted. They took turns reading the manual but to no success. To his right, the same table stands where they served food like they were so scared to go hungry. They joked about sending food to the rest of the batch in Manila. In front of him, the lake stood still. Not even a ripple here nor there. It was so calm and dreadfully inviting.
He stood up and inched his way to the lake, holding onto wooden rails, not wanting to tip over. He stood there for a while. He thought of coming here one more time . . . maybe one last time to say goodbye to the memories. All the others have gone ahead of him. He thought it was unfair but unable to hold them back. He reached for that brown bag he carried with him. IT has 11 stems of wild flowers in it. He tossed each one to the waters below, each time remembering him or her, thanking each for the warmth of friendship through the years. Each time he offered a prayer. "We'll be all together soon - with the major."
"Sir, it's getting dark, should I come back for you or shall we go?" He waved his hand for him to wait. Soon, he was limping towards the caddie. His right hand firm on his cane while his left carried the last flower from the bag.
"Where do we go from here?" asked the driver. "HOME!" He sat down and the flower left his hand. "Where?" He never said a word again.
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