PHOTOGRAPHS

The heat of the coming noon undeniably feels warmer. The rays of the sun that find their way on interstices and gaps of building ceilings beckons everyone to come out. Teenagers with such gaiety pranced along the hallways for summer means a new kind of start to them, a new breed of freedom. The same goes for me, I shall worry no more, temporarily, on lesson plans and the maneuvers in teaching to fully have my students be engrossed in my teaching materials.

The alarm once again rang and with it are the exclamations of the students of my last class. Some cannot even wait and had scuttled out of the room without even saying goodbye. Their faces scream of planned vacations finally coming to fruition.

Our school, being near the esplanade of the Great Bay, made our people have been accustomed to live by the sea and so most of my students travel inland or have themselves live by the city. Though an escape to their usual view, they eventually come back to the waters where the sun greets them with glimmering waves of diamonds and a cold refreshing breeze. It has always been the winds of the Merritown that blows you back to it, the same refreshing winds that seep through the windows and the walls of these buildings that create an ambiance of assurance and relaxation. It's a bad thing you hate the sea.

The students have finally emptied the room. I am still arranging my paperwork, folders, and neatly placing them within my messenger bag. I'm starting to get a hang of this, Stella. I have organized everything and, after turning-off of the lights, have left the room.

The past months had been fruitful all thanks to my students and, of course, to our ever so passionate and supportive head of the art department, Mrs. Mannering. She is venerated by the faculty and well-loved by the parents and students for her candor, hospitality, and caring nature. The best sort of motherly love a teacher can grant to her school children.

I've knocked on the door of her office. There was no usual 'Welcome!' utterance of a soft, gentle, and raspy voice. I peeked and Mrs. Mannering was not at her desk, but I've thrust myself in, for I know I'm sincerely welcome in this room. Like most elderly, her movements have been progressively becoming slower and I surmised that she is still seated in the cafeteria having lunch.

I've sat on the chair in front of her desk. The glass cover has scratches underneath the framed picture of her family. Those photos are positioned diagonally in a manner that she and her guests will be able to see them. She loved sharing about her husband and how her children, who had been living far and have separate lives of their own, now have kids of their own that regularly visits her. Three of her most prized awards for her teaching and talent as a playwright stood proudly above the same table. Other awards and framed certificates of her service to the arts are exhibited behind her chair on a helical glass shelf. Two houseplants complete the corners at her side of the room.

I don't know the year she started teaching but I'm fortunate to witness everything. Each milestone year was framed and hanged onto the walls of the room. Every time I join a student of mine for an appointment with Mrs. Mannering, the room never fails to exude an aura of a paintings museum that leaves the student awestruck and with scanning wide eyes.

Every painting is a memoir of the momentous events that transpired because of Mrs. Mannering. This was never an art school until Mrs. Mannering became tenured here. Her plays and masterful directions caught even the attention of prestigious schools across the globe.

And there are four frames of you here, my dear Stella. Four consecutive photos side by side, four years of your grandeur. I can't even remember what years these are for they are timeless, and the memories from this transcend the present that if I might recall it, they still feel like yesterday.

On the first, you were on the stage as a promising actress, Stella. You were given one of the main supporting roles. The shot at a low angle captures the entirety of a truly evoking grieving child bereft of her precious mother. Your hands reach out as if it's gasping for air, eyes filled with anguish, mouth wide open, and body tensed. You made an outstanding introduction to your acting flair that Mrs. Mannering had already signed you up for future lead roles.

Claire and I had joined the theater circle with you. I preferred knowing the mechanisms backstage as a director's training. Claire also joined backstage as a part of the production team. She was the best at that, her high stamina was put to good use. They also have to be quick-witted there especially on times where technical problems would sprout since the plays were live.

Even I am still amazed by this next photo. Our second year Fall Concierto became magical through your portrayal. You were a daredevil seeking a thrill. The way you gracefully waltzed and spun during the climactic metamorphosis as a mortal deemed worthy of sanctification had the audiences silenced. The play could've failed for Claire moved out once more but fortunately, it had come to a finale where everyone was still firmly seated in their chairs, mouths gaped.

The afterthought of such performance had sent you to different places. Gigs became frequent. Your eyes locked and were always burning above the stage.

Our third year in high school had one of the most memorable plays for me. Claire went back and had risen to be a part of the main performers for Mrs. Mannering's, 'Intertwined'. It is a story of a twin inhabiting a single body. The body is mainly controlled by the 'Light', a twin that is compassionate, loving, and caring. The other is like a shadow that manipulates the flesh through mental distortions and guilt. The craft was excellently written, succumbing you to the mental and psychological horrors brought and manifested in reality, and is augmented by your exceptional character depictions. Claire had played the role of the Light, but your sporadic well-timed appearances as shadow became impactful and had induced thrilling horripilation down everyone's spines.

Claire as 'Light' made her dancing and physical prowess shine while you as shadow exhibited your flexibility, adaptiveness, unpredictability, and expertise in acting a wide range of emotions.

Your photos here can not capture Mrs. Mannering's fondness for you. She had developed a lot of actors and actresses, but you were special to her. You were the only one trained after each dismissal, sometimes even on weekends.

I was always situated at the farthest seat from the stage of the empty amphitheater. Even at that distance, your voice echoes. Mrs. Mannering was like a silent conductor swaying her hands, speaking of inaudible instructions to the craft. She'll take a seat then you'll nod — a signal to commence. You would breathe in heavily, and once your mouth opens, a powerful yet soft, intimidating yet soothing voice unleashes.

Never did anyone knew that a high schooler of Merritown High can skillfully portray Eva Perón of Evita. Mrs. Mannering had been brave to try a classic for your final stage appearance. A scene of the supposed funeral as the main character was permanently captured within the fourth photo. You were at a balcony empathizing for Argentina as a spirit clad in an exquisite white gown. The spotlight was all yours. The hymn of your voice and the glimmer of your dress augments such masterful emotional projection that leaves audiences agape.

The same day that …that is the same day that Machiavelli, that … No!

Machiavelli ran up the stage and announced that you are then a part of his infamous Teatro Magnifico. You cried in tears of joy, almost fell in shock. My heart raced as my breath quickened. Just like you, I was teary-eyed. I was ecstatic, it's for your future. I always knew you wanted to be a part of that – a congregation of the most famous and talented. This is your dream, the culmination of all your work and efforts. But that amiable visage was all fake!

No …. What is this feeling of a squirming heart? A wringing so tight that my eyes become brimmed, once again. How can I remove these hands grasping my heart? Help me, Stella. Why does he need to be free again? Everything was due to his negligence but why is he granted a pardon? W-why? I landed on one knee, slightly lightheaded, as I try to plead to have these chains expunged.

"Are you okay?" I looked up to a familiar and calming face. Wrinkled and aged.

"Ma'am" I replied. I breathed deep and regained control. "I think I'm ok… now."

"No, child. I'll ask someone outside to —"

"I'm already ok," with a nod and a smile I assured Mrs. Mannering of my wellness.

"Let me see?" She came near my face for an inspection, "Thank God your color is coming back. What horror did your pale pallor had brought to me!"

"It won't be good if we'll both have a heart attack here, don't you think?"

"Stop with the jokes! I was horrified!" Her arms were on her chest. "Go have a proper seat and I'll be at my desk."

"I just went here to say goodbye. Not to my life, of course." I cackled, "To bid you, Mrs. Mannering, a warm parting for the summer vacation. You know I always wish you to have a good summer. More time with the grandkids!"

"Same to you." She smiled back, "Oh child, are you truly alright? I still do implore you to pay a visit to the clinic, or probably have yourself rested there on a comfortable bed before you leave the premises. Yes, you've regained a healthy pallor but your eyes still speak of lethargy. Claire will once again be vexed seeing you in such a condition. You don't want that, right?"

"I was just… uh… still up late in the evening. These are just eyebags and a lack of sleep."

"You are not kidding anyone right now, child." Her face became serious.

I had a confused immediate retort, "I wasn't joking."

"It has been years my child and I can still perceive the burden you feel. Only now, I haven't seen you like earlier. The school will open again after weeks and she won't be able to take care of you."

My forehead creased, "This is nothing."

"Have yourself seated properly." She responded, "From your earlier state, I can say that you've been looking at the photographs of Stella. I've known you for so long —"

"I said this is nothing."

I saw her face froze and her hands retracted, hesitant to reach out to me. I, too, was shocked by my impertinence.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled.

"I've already told you that if you are having a hard time right now, get some rest. I know the news of him going out of jail has not been received by you in a good manner, but …. I know him just like how I know you. It might help to talk about it. We are genuinely concerned." Her eyes sank. She continued, but now with an overjoyed look, "But! I do know of great news that can lift your spirits. You see, my child, I have been old and have been long, I might say far too long, in this career. The world had modernized and my old self can not compete with the passing years. I have seen your works, your style, and your commitment ever since I was your teacher. They were truly works of art. What do you say you write for our Fall Concierto this time? That sounds like a great idea, isn't it?"

"I, I-a-I … I don't know if I can …"

"You can! You … can!" She stretched her arms and held my hands.

The memories of my theater suddenly sprouted back up. There were no photographs to capture its early magnificence, but every successive failure of it had been deeply ingrained in my head. The admiration you deserve and my overflowing ardency to share the stories I weaved were torn right before my very eyes. Months of trying with different plays I wrote and everything was to no avail.

"I, I have never written since —"

"Trust in your talent. Your flare might have been dormant, but a single sparkle can rekindle them altogether. Forget about the past and just like your stories, keep moving forward, to no end."

"But the story of me as a writer had long ended."

"It had not. You might have buried the pen but the words you still hold."

"No, no. I have not written anything since I've closed down my theater Ma'am. And, you were one of the greatest playwrights here in Merritown. I can never surpass you. You've witnessed it all yourself."

"I've witnessed it all that is why I was happy, yet saddened by your loss of motivation. Your plays were written with such heart that It has always captivated me after every performance. The actress is there to convey the message but the play itself is the foundation."

"But I am no good," I muttered. Though I had always thought I did great, it can not change the fact that each one of them was a flop.

"Claire had told me otherwise." She smiled so warmly at me as if she had never witnessed all my failures herself. Her trust in me tried to pierce this heart of mine. It will never for it was already in shatters. "You may have not written, but deep in your heart, it had always stayed. Every night you have been telling stories."

"Claire?" My head tilted from confoundment.

"I have talked with her earlier," said Mrs. Mannering. "So, what do you say? Do you accept it? I guess I'll just have to oblige you to write for our Fall Concierto, by making it a requirement?"

"You know I'm not your student anymore." I huffed.

"Knowing you, I am sure you will try."

"But where was Claire?"

"She was with me at the cafeteria. We've discussed things and she had the thoughtful gesture of visiting me before our school goes for a vacation. What a really lovely lady. Do you happen to have something to tell her?"

"Yes, Ma'am. My daughter was fond of her."

"That was quite expected. Claire is truly a beautiful and kind woman." Her eyes blinked slowly. "I believe she's still there. She doesn't seem to be in rush right now."

"Thank you for today, Ma'am." I bowed for respect and farewell.

"Do not forget to write us a fantastic play, Mr. Welch. I am sure everyone would love to finally see your stories come to life." With a smile, we parted for now as I leave her in her office.

The trust in her eyes to me was unyielding despite the softness she outwardly shows. I don't know if I can match her expectations of me if I can write something that would truly express what I wanted and, in turn, astound the audiences. For me, a play has always been a message. A message filled with emotions and wrapped in an envelope to an addressee so dearly important. Once opened with magnificence the same way the red drapes of the halls rise, the reader will be shown with a production that ironically should feel effortless despite the preparation.

How should I start it? What concept shall I use? What characters shall be fit for it? What kind of conflict? Will it be man vs man or man vs self? If it is man vs self, shall I make it metaphorical or psychological? Will it be with musical accompaniment? But first, what kind of genre? Shall I tune it for the kids? This mental diarrhea drains me of energy. The pressure of being trusted with this task overwhelms me. What if I should just go back to Mrs. Mannering's office and tell her I can not do what she believed I can? Because, I, myself, couldn't … I don't know.

It had been years since I last wrote. Can I accomplish this?