Turning of the Tassel

By: Marcpol N. Mintar

There is something wrong with Miles. He did not ready himself even though the clock had already struck the seventh hour, the usual time when he would get up and freshen up for his morning meeting. He did not bother to get his notes from his desk drawer. He did not bother to find a quiet spot so that there would be no distractions for his class. He did not even bother to check what he looked like in his phone’s camera, just to check if he looked decent enough when they were required to open their cameras later on. There is truly something wrong with Miles.

The smell of eggs and garlic rice greeted him first, then his dear mother, who had just finished cooking breakfast. They exchanged smiles, anticipation and excitement visible in both of their eyes. He washed his hands, faint stains of black shoe cream still in the crevices of his palm and fingers, the result of his somewhat successful attempt at shining his black leather shoes just the night before. Sitting across from each other at their dining table, they ate breakfast as they ran through their plans for this monumental day.

There is something wrong with Miles, really, for what could be the reason for his extensive bath that lasted for almost an hour? He even scrubbed his whole body! His mother was worried, though it is not quite certain if it was the unusual behavior of her son, or the water bill that she was worried about. Miles dried himself completely, and carefully put on his slack pants and school uniform. He was afraid to crumple his ironed-out attire, which had been the doing of his mother, who insisted on doing the ironing herself even though Miles told her that he was capable of doing so. He put on a belt, feeling the worn-out leather in the process. He put on his black shoes, which were a little too big for his feet. For a split second, the anticipation that has been building since the start of the week has been replaced by longing and emptiness.

Miles convinced himself on the way home from school that nothing was wrong; the day would turn out exactly as he had imagined. He stepped out of the tricycle while his mother paid for the fare. In the distance, he already saw the students gathered at the entrance of the grand stadium, with their proud parents by their side. His mother faced him, fixing his hair into a neat side-part. She let out a breath, followed by a genuine smile that even her face mask could not hide. But on top of that smile were her eyes; the kind of eyes that a person would have if they were reminded. He knew right then and there that his mother had that same longing and emptiness that he was feeling, and in that moment, he was a reminder.

Miles met with his friends as the program finally commenced, after they checked their temperatures and sanitized their hands as they entered the venue. They complained about how far they were seated from each other, but all that he could think of was how far they had gone from being those small, wide-eyed children with bigger dreams, to learn, but still growing up, youths with clearer visions. His mother adjusted his graduation cap, looked at him one last time, and then proceeded on her way to her seat in the bleachers.

As the class valedictorian was delivering her speech, he realized that he had never actually strived to be at the very top of the ranks. For him, merely passing his subjects was more than enough. He thought that he was quite lucky that his parents shared the same sentiment. For his parents, simply completing the course he enjoyed was an accomplishment enough. And I did! He thought to himself. He really did.

Anthony’s mother soon joined him when it was time for their class to walk to the stage. The students maintained their distance from each other as they formed the line, and he even guided his mother where to stand. She had never walked her son through his commencements before, because since then, Miles had always requested that his father accompany him to the stage. Her mother thought that she should start to familiarize herself with the act from now on, since from here on, she would be the only one to walk him through her son’s achievements, and it seems that Miles just realized that.

There is something wrong with Miles. When his name echoed through the halls, he did not cry. When he finally got that diploma, that piece of paper that symbolized all that he had gone through all these years, finally in his hands, he did not cry. When he saw his mother looking at him with that look on her face, he did not cry. He felt it, but he did not cry. It was when he got home, and he passed the empty dining chair, when he took off his shoes with no effort, when he stepped into that shower and the water finally tore down his walls, that he began to cry. He cried and cried, silently but hard. He cried for almost an hour, and when he got to bed, the tears came again.

There is nothing wrong with Miles. There is nothing wrong with celebrating the achievements you win and mourning the one prize you dream of but aren’t ready to pay for. There is nothing wrong with Miles. In fact, he believes that, in time, he will be all right. Maybe that time will be tomorrow, or the day after, or next year. But not tonight, because tonight he will cry.