Zyphera

His name sounds like the month of June. The desired summer arrives safely with its promises and colors marked down on our skin. Jun is the transition from spring to summer, from tenderness to joy. I was working in a hotel, he accompanied an Emir. Many people occupied the hotel: police and others. He was his nurse. Jun was a young Filipino. We don’t understand each other very well. Him with a perfect English but a dreadful accent. Me with my good accent but approximate English. I saw him coming and going from his room to the restaurant then pool. One evening, he stopped at the desk where I posted. We exchanged a few words. Carried away by his huge smile, he made me travel. He told me that Jun was a name the Emir had given him, but not his. He told me his studies and his family, and his future projects. Before his departure, he gave me a playing card: random sign, one has been chosen and our separated paths had crossed. A pair of chopstick. What could be more unifying than sharing food. And Philippine currency bill on which was written « Dear Carolyn, Take care of you for me. » Before he left in front of the bar of the hotel, we took a picture he had proudly shown. For months, we exchanged mails. He wrote me about his life, sometimes in French and I answered in English. At the end of each of his emails he wrote how he did not forget my warm welcome. If he only knew how much I had been trying to give him back him softness. I keep a specific souvenir of him, sitting at a table in restaurant with his friend. One Muslim, the other Catholic. Both praying together before sharing the same plate.