How We Met
Joseph Delamerced
After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after
the fire came a gentle whisper.
1 Kings 19:12 (NIV)
Let me tell you the story of how we never met, you and I.
The first way we did not meet was by accident of birth.
Whether you were born thirty years too early or I was born
thirty years too late, I do not know. Perhaps we are both
travelers out of our natural times; maybe we would both have
fit better a hundred years ago, or three hundred years from
now. I don’t know, and I’ll never know.
We did not meet as children. I often complained there was
no sidewalk to reach my home. There was not even a road
to get to yours. As a child, you played basketball every day,
with dreams of becoming a professional athlete. I committed
to burying my nose in a book, with dreams of being a half-
successful writer.
We did not meet as adults. You worked on a farm, and the
closest I have ever been to one is on a field trip. I am not
built for physical labor; my hands are soft and my strength is
lacking. I work with computers. I am not certain if you used
one when you were older, considering typing may have been
too difficult due to the train accident.
The train system was new, and the alarms were faulty. As you
approached the crossing, there were two cars in front of yours.
All of you moved forward. The train did not stop. All three
cars were trapped, and then—shattered, just as your bones
were. I have heard that you and your wife were the only two to
survive. You like to add that my mother was the third — that is
why you named her “Victoria”: victory amidst tragedy.
I wonder if we’ll ever meet, you and I. Our common ground is
little. There are many times I wish we could have met. There
are many times we never will.
So as your memories
of our times together
fade, I need to know:
is this how we’ll meet,
you and I?
We did not meet as youths. I attended college
and tried to face the world alone. I struggled to
find myself. I struggled more with the lie that I
ever did. I would have liked to have known your
lessons in strength and perseverance. You joined
the militia and rarely speak of it. I’ve heard a few
stories, little more than whispers that I could not comprehend
of a life in a culture alien to me. I never could have survived
in any military setting. Even as I grew older, I was still too
physically weak and strong-willed for such a life. You tried
to flee when the war came to you, I’ve been told. Your boat
was told to turn around. I went on a boat when I was nine. I
vomited ten minutes into the ride. No, we did not meet each
other then.
10 Spring 2020
I should have met you when we saw
each other. I took that moment for
granted.
The day was early, and I woke up
to the smell of spam and garlic rice.
As I entered the kitchen, your wife
handled our initial introductions. “This is your lolo’s favorite
dish,” she explained. “I think you’ll like it, too.” She then led
me toward the table where you were seated, urging me to reach
out: “Mano po.” I took your hand and put it to my forehead,
hoping for some lasting connection. I retreated again, but we
smiled at each other, reassured: our silent handshake. The
days repeated in similar fashion, and before we knew it, the
week was over. The airplane ride home was long, and the
memories began to take shape. Yet I felt I did not learn much.