Touched By The Angel

He almost became blind

noreply@blogger.com (Man-of-the-Moment) — Thu, 30 Nov 2006 08:31:00 +0000

Surprisingly, the long break from work and familiar faces was better than anticipated.

Stealing some time off from the usual insane deadlines, which he'd earlier embraced, he took off to visit his Angel. There was so much he'd needed to tell her, to share with her.

In those precious eight days he'd spent with her, it was as if they'd not parted ways. He could feel her divine presence, this despite his buds concluding he'd lost his mind.

He'd made the first stop at her resting place for two days, prior to heading out to Dublin City in Ireland. There he found the spot at Merrion Square the statue of the man she'd long admired. He paced the ground restlessly, impatiently, as he recalled one of their earlier conversations.

She had casually mentioned her wish: that her ashes be scattered at the Square. It bothered him tremendously that the wish had not been fulfilled; yet the wishes of the ones who love her as much as he does had to be respected.

He was startled when a lone pigeon landed near his feet on the second day he visited, just as he was conversing with his Angel. For a split second, he wondered aloud, "Is that you, my love?"

He could not shake off that feeling all through his return journey to New York. How he wished he had the power to see beyond the naked eye, into the supernatural realm of being.

The days that followed were beautiful though, even as the weather turned cold. He loved sitting just there, beside her, chatting with her, updating her on what had been happening in Singapore.

He could almost see her wide eyes rolling at some of the absurd incidents that had occurred; he could almost hear her gleeful laughter at the love that had blossomed between an impossible couple; he could almost feel her pain as she must've wept at the thought that her mum was now wheelchair-bound; he could almost hear her wistful sigh at some of her favourite bloggers' entries; he could almost feel the touch of the hand he knew she'd placed around his shoulder as he cracked under the veneer of false bravado and cried his heart out.

Damn it! He can only almost do all of that.

Damn it! He wishes it was not only almost.

Damn it! He wants all of that to be a certainty.

Damn it! He realises that in his self-absorbed grief, he nearly became blind to the signs that she is still with him.

And he saw it only when he visited the blogs of one of her favourite authors, DW, who had written in his latest entry 洒满一地的梦:

Hold on to the good memories,
Live one day at a time.
If you can see the sunset today,
Stand still for a few moments
and behold its beauty.
If you don't, then there will always be
one tomorrow, or the day after.
Even if it never comes before
you breathe your last,
There will always be
that last sunset you watched
to remind you of life's splendour.

Oh yes, she is still here with him.

願意今生約定，他生再擁抱..... Till that day comes

noreply@blogger.com (Man-of-the-Moment) — Wed, 01 Nov 2006 05:30:00 +0000

In his prized possession are many items that mean the world to her. He can't fathom why she's left them to him, but he knows for certain, she has her reason. And that is the inexplicable bond between them.

Like this song from one of the thousands of CDs that are now his, by one of his favourite singers. When they first shared their loves, he was surprised to learn that Leslie Cheung was one too, another one of the many ties that bind.

They love the chorus, beautiful words that, for some strange reason, have been resounding in his ears the past hour.

幻變的一生默默期待一份愛
踏過多少彎段段情路也失望
我不甘心說別離仍舊渴望愛的傳奇
不捨不棄無懼長夜空虛風中繼續追

* 風裡笑著風裡唱感激天意碰著你
縱是苦澀都變得美
天也老任海也老唯望此愛愛未老
願意今生約定他生再擁抱

是你的雙手靜靜燃亮這份愛
是你的聲音夜夜陪伴我的夢
交出真心真的美無盡每日每天想你
今生今世寧願名利拋開瀟灑跟你飛

(重唱 *, *)

願意今生約定他生再擁抱

Again, thanks to the Youtube community, he found this:

If tears could make a staircase

noreply@blogger.com (Man-of-the-Moment) — Wed, 01 Nov 2006 03:30:00 +0000

We do not need a special day
To bring you to our minds.
The days we do not think of you
Are very hard to find.

Each morning when we awake,
We know that you are gone.
And no one knows the heartache
As we try to carry on.

Our hearts still ache with sadness
And secret tears still flow.
What it meant to lose you
No one will ever know.

Our thoughts are always with you,
Your place no one can fill.
In life we loved you dearly;
In death we love you still.

There will always be a heartache,
And often a silent tear.
But always a precious memory
Of the days when you were here.

If tears could make a staircase,
And heartaches make a lane,
We'd walk the path to heaven
And bring you home again.

We hold you close within our hearts;
And there you will remain,
To walk with us throughout our lives
Until we meet again.

Our chain is broken now,
And nothing seems the same,
But as God calls us one by one,
The chain will link again.

Written by Connie Dyer

And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever

noreply@blogger.com (Man-of-the-Moment) — Mon, 30 Oct 2006 16:06:00 +0000

If I should ever leave you,
Those who I love,
To go along the silent way,
Grieve not,
Nor speak of me with tears,
But laugh and talk of me,
As if I were beside you there.

I'd come... I'd come,
Could I but find a way!
But would not tears and grief be barriers?
And when you hear a song or see a bird I loved,
Please do not let the thought of me be sad.
For I am loving you,
Just as I always have.

You were so good to me.
There are so many things I want still to do,
So many things to say to you.
Remember that I did not fear,
It was just leaving you that was so hard to face.
We cannot see beyond.
But this I know: I loved you so.

By the time the service was over, there wasn't a single dry eye among those who'd gathered to bid a final farewell. Every now and again, you'd see packets of tissue paper passed around, hankies whipped out and the occasional sobs.

The tears flowed freely, for even the sky opened up on Saturday, sending showers of blessings among the bereaved, as they wept for the woman who had touched their lives in a manner no one could ever forget.

A total of 12 men found courage to stand at the rostrum to share heartwarming stories and their personal memory of the special angel they've loved. Yes, 12 grown men who struggled to hold back their grief or in their failure to do so, choked on their tears.

The only woman who had attempted to speak had to be helped down to her seat. She faltered and could not go beyond the words: "Today would have been her 26th birthday..." The woman also did not sit through the memorial service. She is now in the intensive care unit. She is the woman that Sparks calls the Queen. She is the woman who gave Sparks the chance to understand what it is like to be loved by a mother.

No, it is never easy for anyone to lose someone they love. It's even harder when that someone they love is as remarkable as his Sparks. He's beginning to see the sense of the Chinese proverb, 天妒英才, which means "heaven is jealous of the outstanding". Oh well, just as a relative had said: "We can only take consolation in that thought."

It was an eye-opening, heart-rending experience for MOTM, given that he had been a part of her life only in the last months. If he had previously described her as "special", "remarkable", or even "outstanding", they were mere adjectives that did not half measure up to person she truly was.

From the caretaker in the orphanage where Sparks had spent the first part of her life, to the wonderful doctor (and his wife) who had given her the love, the family and the home she had craved for and fully deserved, from the English literature professor who had been impressed with her literary supremacy, to the fencing instructor who had been beaten by her level of persistence, from the man to whom she had first offered her innocence, to the other one who had never stopped loving since he first saw her beating up three boys for being cruel to a dog...

Through each of their hearts, their eyes, their words, the magic of the angel who'd lived and loved so bravely, so magnificently, so wonderfully, unfolded and engulfed one and all.

And as the final words of remembrance were uttered, as the Reverend led everyone into the first notes of Amazing Grace, quiet sobs turned into loud wails of sorrow. Despite the constant pleas from her father, the man she calls Pops, and sometimes Pappy, even as he struggled to compose himself.

From aside, MOTM's eyes scanned the church as he too fought to keep his calm. It should've been an easy task, his years as a journalist has instilled that ability to remain detached from the most tragic scenario. Yet it was a losing battle, and when it came to the benediction, he could no longer control the tears.

He is not ashamed to admit it. In fact, he'd proudly declare that he's been thoroughly humbled by Sparks, and that experience is one he'd live to remember for the rest of his life.

And he recognises as a fact: That while she is not the first woman he'd loved, she is the last he loves. For there can never be another one like his Sparks.

He concedes too that one day, sometime in the near future, he'll seek the man who robbed her love, her smile, her laughter, her life. In his own way, he knows, he'll make the man who destroyed and killed Sparks pay for what he had done dearly. That is his promise.

But tonight, once again, he is doing nothing, except missing his angel.

The love that once was born can not die,
For it has become part of us, of our life,
Woven into the very texture of our being.
Each of us would wish to leave some part of ourselves,
So here and now we bear witness to the one we knew in life,
Who now in death bequeaths a subtle part,
Precious and beloved,
Which will be with us in truth and beauty,
In dignity and courage and love
To the end of our days.

The countdown begins

noreply@blogger.com (Man-of-the-Moment) — Fri, 27 Oct 2006 03:45:00 +0000

These days, he finds solace by burying himself under deadlines, for it's the easiest method of numbing himself. Odd though, he'd never imagined he could miss someone this much; even his closest bud observed as much. And he'd know better, since their friendship began from the days of playing marbles and making girls cry.

He's no Don Juan, but he's had more than the average number of amorous adventures; and yea, he'd be arrogant enough to admit, women come easy. Save for his first love, when he was in his bumbling teenage years, he's never really been that serious in any relationship.

Not until he met Sparks.

Yet not many people would qualify what Sparks and he had shared as a "relationship", he knows that. Hell. These days, he seeks out stories with such a vengeance that his editor is beginning to think he's a loose cannon. In fact, two days ago, he sat MOTM down for a quick session.

"I'm not sure what really happened, but I gather you're going through some emotional phase now. Work is a good release, but it should never take precedence over your personal well-being..." was the big man's advice.

Funny how he'd never realised this "humane" aspect of his editor; but he appreciated the gesture. Good thing for him too, that the big man was aware of the crisis, else, as one of his colleagues said: "You'd be doomed! This is a critical period, your future's at stake, think 'promotion', think 'performance incentive'..." Yabady, yabady, he went on.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
In a little over 24 hours, her friends will gather at the church for a service in her memory. There's been so much mayhem amidst the preparations; it's like it's her big day tomorrow. The irony of it all, it is her big day, in a way.

Someone in the group had remarked last night: "Shucks! How I wish all this was her wedding prep; or even a surprise birthday party! Damn!"

Just as she'd completed that statement, suddenly, almost like it was put on cue, this song came on Class 95.

And it stumped everyone into silence. Again.

He glanced at The Little Prince, his first gift from Sparks, and smiled at it.

For he knows, she is with them. As with always.

That magical touch of his Sparks

noreply@blogger.com (Man-of-the-Moment) — Sat, 14 Oct 2006 14:09:00 +0000

It's an occupational hazard, he knows, and there's nothing he can really do about it. He acknowledges that he's almost becoming a hardcore cynic, even his family and closest friends realise that there's no way of getting him to change. All except his Sparks.

She possesses a certain power that can melt the hardest heart, it's a magic that he can't define. He's seen that magic work wonders, especially in the past month. Aside from the testaments of family members and friends, mere acquaintances and even strangers have stopped by her blog to share their thoughts, their feelings.

Which explains the reason for his nick for her.

Courtesy of Dictionary.com:

spark /spɑrk/ –noun

1. anything that activates or stimulates; inspiration or catalyst

2. a trace of life or vitality

3. to kindle, animate, or stimulate (interest, activity, spirit)

4. a woman of outstanding beauty, charm, or wit

From virtual strangers in blogsphere, some've turned into good friends and yet others, confidantes. There've been several requests from names the family has not been privy to; all asking for details of the upcoming memorial service.

If the family can, they'd love to accommodate, but there're too many factors against the open invitation. The guest list, for one, comprises some bigwigs. Then there's the call for more privacy, which has been undermined by the media spotlight. Yes, how ironical indeed, considering he is a member of that category. Again, the magical touch of his Sparks has allowed him to break through that barrier.

Sigh. He is losing momentum tonight, stumped again by an E-card he's received. From no one else but his Sparks. And he wonders, just how many people'll continue to be "hearing" from her in the days, the months and the years to come.

Of course, he's learned that she can lock in selected cards and set a date in the future with that service from Hallmark. Sigh. That, he's beginning to sound like an old man, again is the magical touch of his Sparks.

And if anyone has any doubts about her sparkling wonder, watch the following video clip, the original version was posted in his first entry on this blog. This revised copy comes with the heartfelt wishes, kindness and generosity of Joe aka fallinguphill1 from the Youtube community, someone who was equally touched by the beauty of Sparks' love and life. Thank you, Joe.

They are hurting just as much

noreply@blogger.com (Man-of-the-Moment) — Sat, 14 Oct 2006 02:58:00 +0000

He had thought about it, long and hard, before finally agreeing. He was not enthusiastic about meeting them, her parents. They had been upset with him, that much he knew, and nothing he said or do would make a difference. But he had a task to perform, and for his Sparks, he would brave the coldest war.

This morning, he is grateful he had listened to that voice. Not because they'd apologised for their brutality the other day, but because they'd deigned to share a part of their grief with him. He knew how much effort it'd taken them to do so. He was afterall the outcast, having come into her life this late. But that was not it, the worst had to be the unforgiving fact he didn't detect something amiss the day she left. Now that's all in the past.

Today, they opened their hearts to him, that in itself is a miracle. For what he did, his job that is, it was not one that people of their calibre would trust. He sent a little prayer of thanks to his Sparks, for bridging the gap between her parents and him.

Deep in his heart, he knows she is smiling, knowing that they have become friends.

Here is the piece they'd like him to include in the memorial service booklet. How well they've described their loss:

Please don't ask us if we're over it yet,
We'll never be over it.
Please don't tell us she is in a better place,
She isn't here with us.
Please don't say at least she isn't suffering,
We haven't come to terms with why she had to suffer at all.
Please don't tell us you know how we feel,
Unless you have lost a child.
Please don't ask us if we feel better,
Bereavement isn't a condition that clears up.
Please don't tell us at least you had her for some 20 years,
What year would you choose for your child to die?
Please don't tell us God never gives us more
Than we can handle.
Please just say that you're sorry.
Please just say you remember our child, if you do.
Please just let us talk about our angel.
Please mention our love's name.
Please... just let us cry.
Please talk about her,
Talk about her gentle smile.
Share your memories of her.
Share your sadness that she has gone.
Ask us what we loved about her.
Tell us what you loved about her.
Tell us what she brought to your life.
Tell us you will miss her.
Say she was beautiful.
Say you loved her.
But please don't tell us...
There is nothing you can say.

She's still there, somewhere, he knows for certain

noreply@blogger.com (Man-of-the-Moment) — Wed, 11 Oct 2006 13:00:00 +0000

His head was throbbing this morning, it took every ounce of his self-control not to throw up, that'd be much too embarrassing.

He did not manage to make it home last night, yea the "drink, don't drive" slogan had worked its magic even before Anonymous_X had posted that reminder. So when her friends started leaving the cafe she owned, he sat in the corner, lost in his own stupor. Until someone approached him and offered him a lift.

But he was hesitant about spending some 20 minutes alone in the company of another man who too had given his heart to his Sparks. To put it bluntly, he was jealous as hell, and that emotion was most senseless at this point. He stared at the man who remained standing there, looking expectantly and kindly at him. Hell! He always lost the battle with kindness.

He stumbled to his feet, declining the additional offer of assistance. If he can drink, he can jolly well walk. The other man shrugged his shoulders and smiled: "Hey, you shouldn't feel lousy about this, you know. We all get drunk sometimes, it's not a big deal. Baby'd have a fine time teasing you about it if she can."

He shot the man a glare, thinking it'd silence him, but the man continued: "Baby would've tsk-ed tsk-ed at your action tonight. She'd not want anyone of us, especially those she loved to be this upset."

"Will you f**king stop talking about her in the past tense?! She is still here with us and I'm not going crazy, just in case you're about to say that! So, please, stop referring to her as if she is an item of the past, for crying out loud! Damn it!"

Yes he's completely screwed up this time. For one, the man facing him, on another occasion, at another time, in someplace else, would've been a much-revered contact. Or, as his editor'd call him, an important newsmaker.

It was a silent journey. It didn't occur to him at first, until some 10 minutes later to ask: "Do you know where my apartment is?"

No, said the other man. "But I was thinking you might wanna join me for a drink at one of Baby's favourite holes."

He knew where that was. The place she fondly named TUP, which means "the usual place". It was one that used to be frequented by the scribes, their spot to unwind. He had always wanted to ask her how she'd stumbled across it, but he never had the chance. Guess he'd never know now.

So there they were, two grown men, each lost in their private thought, however connected that thought was between them, mourning the loss of the same woman who had touched their hearts in such a way that there was no turning back.

They spoke very little to each other, their only exchanges were the times when they recognised the occasional song she loves.

Begrudgingly he found a new respect in the other man, when he was invited to spend the night in her lovely home. They lit the candles in her favourite spot, the reading corner, before sleep took over.

And this morning when he was about to leave her home, he saw these words, framed together with a photo of Sparks standing against the light of dusk in New York City. In her arms was a huge bouquet of her favourite flowers, tulips in shades of pale orange.

The words read: "It was dusk, that strange, almost mystical interlude when light and dark are perfectly balanced. Within moments the soft blue would be transformed by the fiery colours of sunset. Shadows were lengthening; the birds were quieting. Oh, how I love the musk of dusk."

It unsettled him tremendously, for he recalled what he had written in the latest entry of DW's Amongst Other Things.

Thus he knows for certain, she is still there, somewhere.

The bad news he received a month ago

noreply@blogger.com (Man-of-the-Moment) — Tue, 10 Oct 2006 03:02:00 +0000

Today is going to be one long day, for everyone who loves his Sparks. And when the night falls, emotions are going to run high and hopefully, there will be someone for everyone who is mourning. He will be drinking himself silly by tonight. The good thing of course is he does not have to report for work tomorrow morning, he had pre-empted that by applying for a two-day leave last week.

Today marks a month since she made up her mind to leave everyone and everything behind. He knows the decision must've caused her much pain; she is not one to give up on life so easily. Not even when she was lying in a local hospital in a coma sparked off by her failing heart. Ahh, that was a medical condition that could be left in the hands of the learned professionals to save, which to a certain extent, they did.

Until a callous line broke that already-fragile heart of hers. She almost did not want to believe it when she first heard it, she shared with him. She had wished it was a line of miscommunication, that perhaps someone was beside the other man when he said what he had. She said: "I had prayed somehow this was not true, not after all we have shared with each other. Not when I know some of his most intimate details, not when he has shared with me some of his deepest secrets. I just find it impossible to believe that he would say all that. Didn't he know it will break my heart? Didn't he care?"

The other man had hurt her terribly, and she never recovered from that pain. It was that air of wistfulness that had struck MOTM at the gala dinner in Sydney when they had met. It was not their first but his loins had stirred, he is a little ashamed to confess now.

He was bored that night and as she had correctly identified, he was also uncomfortable about attending such events and would probably have skipped it if he had not been on assignment. Then he spotted this special woman kick off her shoes and playing with her toes, totally oblivious to the disapproving stares her chaperone was shooting. He watched her for some 30 minutes, drinking in her every little action while he searched his sometimes failing memory to put a name to that face.

Then bingo! He remembered their first meeting at the Istana in early 2004. She was there with a Mediacorp actor and there were whispers in the background that she was his kept woman, and that was no good in their morally-uptight society. He had watched a Shin Min reporter approach the couple and he was impressed by the discreet manner in which she handled the situation, while the actor just walked away leaving her in the hands of a vulture.

He didn't realise it then, it had only occurred to him when they started dating a couple of months ago, but he had been attracted to her that night two years ago, especially when he tried to strike a conversation later. Well, he had his foot in his mouth and his lack of tact to blame but he was properly put in his place when she told him: "Don't mind my rudeness but I think you're quite a jackass."

Yea, he knows she has written about it in her blog but clearly, she didn't remember the exact line as well as he did. For till that moment, he had always been a ladies' man and she had broken the record by calling him a jackass. He didn't think the actor deserved her then. He still held the same thought when they chanced upon each other at a movie premiere a year later.

She had been laughing at a comment her date for the night had made when she turned and made eye contact with MOTM. She smiled politely and he could virtually see her churning mind as she struggled to recall where they had met. He walked up and a PR from the film company introduced them.

He could tell she remembered the incident when she said: "You are that one." Leaving him with sufficient hint to squirm, he made an excuse to get away. Yet he spent that night watching her, instead of the movie. Even his date had commented as much, and he had to pay for a ticket to watch it at another time.

There is something about Sparks. Everyone's been saying, she's special. But what makes her truly special? He wishes he could write about that but words fail the wordsmith at the most critical time.

Still he will persist. And when they next meet at the memorial service, he promises, he will have a beautiful eulogy to share.

Today he will sneak away to her favourite spot at the beach and spend quiet moments, reminiscencing their brief but dear days together. Then he will drink himself silly to prevent his tears from flowing.

Is she that easy to forget?

noreply@blogger.com (Man-of-the-Moment) — Mon, 09 Oct 2006 06:08:00 +0000

His best buds were worried about him. "Snap out of your misery, man," they told him. "She ain't coming back, you know. One good thing is, you've not been too long together. It'll be easier to forget her."

They meant well, he knew that. Yet he felt they were trivalising his feeling. Does the depth of one's love equate time spent together? He didn't think so. Or does "forgetting about her" mean "you can start living your own life" as a certain Juphelia wrote in his last entry? If they thought so, then he gathered, they have yet to realise what love really is.

Life for him hasn't changed, it was not that he was walking around like a zombie. He still attended media conferences. He still conducted the necessary interviews. He still filed his stories on time. He still saw his byline in the daily.

He just did not date. And he just did not drink, the way he used to, like a fish. But that's only because he wanted to stay sober till her birthday. For the countdown had begun and everyone who loves her is aware of the impact of that day. For a memorial service will be held that day, at her favourite church, attended by those who've had the opportunity to be a part of her brief life.

One of her best friends had entrusted him with the task of coordinating with the florist. He was not a fan of most florists for he has always felt that they extorted money for the most special occasions, yet perform his task well he must, and he will.

So on Saturday morning, he had gone down for a discussion with the florist. It was the beginning to a lousy day. The flowers, expressed the florist, were really not in bloom. "Oh but we do our best since we've known the family a long time." Yea right. It was more like they were paying an exorbitant price for the tulips, all 3,000 of them, in every conceivable colours there were.

A fellow journalist from a tabloid had chanced upon the information and she contacted him. "Hey, you think I can do a story?"

No, he told her firmly. The family would not want that, and besides, what story was there about tulips being used at a memorial service.

"Oh," she sang. "You should know what, you are a journalist too. The readers will want to read about how special she was, and what her family and friends are doing to remember her by."

Save it, he told the journalist, much to her consternation.

He had intended to spend the night at home, sipping their favourite wine and watching the City Of Angels again. It would be, he thought, his own way of remembering her. But his buds had plans for him. "Come on, join us for a drink at the club," they coaxed him.

And he went. Only to regret it the moment he saw Ms BB aka Big Boobs amongst the men. It was a set-up and he wished he had the foresight to see it, but he was now caught with his pants down. Literally.

Ms BB is a personal assistant to one of the leading entrepreneurs in Singapore, and she had the hots for him. MOTM that is. Only thing was, he wasn't quite into big boobs and bungling brains. Hell!

Still he kept his cool. Sure, if the guys wanted some fun, they could have it, so long as it was not at his expense. But as the minutes passed, yes he did not suffer fools really, his impatience was starting to show.

"Oooh, you look bored and you're only having soda. I never knew you were a goody-two-shoes," she tittled. "I get the feeling you don't quite fancy me, or am I competing with a dead woman?"

And he lost it. For some reasons, with that last quip from Ms BB, all the manners his parents had instilled him slipped into the dead of the night, leaving him to act like a real bastard. And the worst part of it, he was not in the least sorry about it.

Coolly, he told her: "You're right, I never fancied you, and I don't think I'd ever even if you were lying in my bed, all naked and wanting. I pride myself on being an arrogant bastard who knows what is quality and what is trash. And no, you are not competing with a dead woman, how can you when you'd not make it to her league, in this pitiful life of yours." Then he left, with everyone in the group, flabbergasted by his rudeness.

Not that he was bothered by it. Not that night. Not even now. And his best buds had better realise that.

It was their last film together

noreply@blogger.com (Man-of-the-Moment) — Wed, 04 Oct 2006 16:35:00 +0000

Of course, there was no way he'd have known that then. She had been acting strangely after being discharged from the hospital. There was an air of melancholy but he was too preoccupied with the massive project that'd descend on the island. He had too many things on his mind, this was the only excuse he could offer in response to the recurring question, "Did you not realise something was out of place?"

He was the one with her, in the last 24 hours of her life in this country. They had talked into the night, even though she had shown signs of fatigue. Yet she'd declined to retire to bed each time he suggested it to her. In the end, she fell asleep with tears in her eyes, in his arms, on the futon at his apartment.

She had made breakfast for him in the late morning while he teasingly corrected her, "It's brunch, Sparks. No one has breakfast at 11am..."

It was a lazy day. They had a pact - their handphones turned to the silent mode, their notebooks tucked away in the individual cars.

They did nothing much - in the eyes of others; but now, etched forever in his memory is every word they had exchanged that day.

At her request, he had rushed to HMV to buy the DVD; and as they watched City Of Angels, he had been distracted more by her little actions, like how she'd bite her lower lip each time the two leads met.

His Sparks was so filled with love, as always, and he'd found it especially endearing when she leaned over and kissed him. He had wanted her then. As he had when he first met her. But he told himself he had to be patient. For she was still a patient. He hated that pun.

Very reluctantly, he had to drop her off at the airport later. He'd not even been able to accompany her in and bid farewell at the departure hall. He had an interview to do for the next day's papers. Her parents and her family would be with her, he'd assured himself.

The last he saw of her that day was when she turned around and mouthed the words, "I love you."

The next time he saw her was two days ago. And the photo of the angel you see next to his moniker? Well, that now marks the place she rests in New York City. The original photo he took is here.

Damn it. He sure misses his angel. It is worse than being in hell.

For once tonight, he wishes he'd been more techno-savvy. But he is willing to settle for this version of their last film together, which he had found on Youtube.

In the loving memory of his Sparks, the angel who touched his life.