The transplant.

It’s always the fog, of course.

Mist. That thing that always, always seems to say “I am mysterious, won’t you like to know me deeper?”

It’s a tease. On some days it’s so heartbreakingly beautiful that you are left wondering how you can face the next day without it. Already, there’s a dread: Will it be a sunny, clear day tomorrow? There’s a longing, instantly, for that certain beauty you’re seeing this very moment.

Picture this: Fog descending over Burnham Park Lake. Staying there. Hovering. Moving just with the slightest motion.

If you strain your ears you’ll probably hear a hum, like a lover’s in the middle of the night, lulling you to join it to some faraway place that only the two of you know, will ever know.

This morning at the pantry there was mist clinging to the glass windows and in the distance I saw some greenery, Antipolo, perhaps. And yes for a while I let myself imagine that what I’m seeing is you. You.

There’s a certain feeling that a simple mist on glass evokes, from someone who used to live with you, who is now in a place like Manila. A sort of stabbing pain — almost undetectable but piercing just the same. And then there’s a sort of joy, remembering what once was, what existed, what is gone but will always be there.

Picture this: Waking up underneath layers of blankets. Trying to remember a dream, of a warm embrace, a lonely pair of eyes, and then perhaps some laughter. Looking at the window and seeing that in the past night there was heavy fog as evidenced by mist on the glass. (You then trace your fingers on the glass to form a heart-shape or perhaps the name of your beloved.)

It’s like somehow the fog was trying to get your attention, with a hundred little fingers, in a hundred little ways, filling your windows with a hundred, perhaps a thousand, spots of water, with their own little rainbows. How come something so big and encompassing as this could go unnoticed?

It was trying to say something to you during the night but you were sleeping so you didn’t notice it. And this morning you thought, “I wish we had more time together. I wish we didn’t have to sleep. I wish I wish I wish.”

Dear Baguio City, all I really want to say is: I want to come home to you.