. grrrl .
kate, 18, is currently a junior journalism major at the university of the philippines, diliman.
she digs buffy the vampire slayer, pays homage to faith and eliza dushku,
and drools over spike and james marsters' accent. she cried when tara died
in "seeing red". she had desperately tried to dye her hair the exact colour
of willow's hair for several times now, but miserably failed. every time.
when she's not abandoning everything else for the love of buffy, she also
writes much, while listening to sarah mclachlan, tori amos, clair marlo, lisa
loeb, lifehouse, the corrs, matchbox twenty, and evanescence.
she's single, and she (thinks) she's now tired of looking at the wrong places
for the right person.
[she's crazy about webdesign, and she swears she'll marry the geniuses behind
adobe photoshop and macromedia dreamweaver. check out her recommendations,
as well as her other sites at linkage.]
Aisles
She thought church aisles were made for weddings, red carpets
and grooms
in tuxedos and brides in motif gowns. She thought, someday, she'd walk,
and her mother would be holding the end
of her veil, long trail flowing.
But she walks now, and she's in a white dress that's not a
gown,
and her mother's not behind her holding fabric, but in front, riding
a white box lined with gold.
She walks to the altar with her eyes on the marble
beneath her feet, there's no red carpet, but the priest is waiting
at the end, holding holy water in one hand.
He talks about perpetual lights shining, but all she sees
is black
pins on white blouses, and she doesn't care.
She thought parks should have sandboxes and slides and monkey
bars, but this doesn't
even have a rusty swing set. The trees drip
with tears under the rain. She would have none
on her face. The wind rips through the hem
of her dress, her knees unfeeling.
The white box and its gold lining
disappear into the gap, and she stops
thinking, her eyes on the damp bermuda clinging
to her soles. The humming
in the background shrinks, fainting.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, the cliché goes,
and she doesn't give a damn.
And the people start leaving with
their automatic handshakes, half-meant
condolences, donning black umbrellas, just as
the rain stops. And so she drops
to her knees, soil soft and damp and sad,
and as she throws the flower in,
she weeps.
==
