Death By Heatstroke

I sat beside a woman of Eastern European origins. Her features were strong, minus the brownish gold hair color common in that region. She doesn't offer an explanation, knowing that it simply would have prolonged the conversation in a direction she did not care to pursue. Instead she pulls out a camera from a rucksack on her left. I point to the window behind her. A man with a fishing pole had just started to walk back along the breakwater towards the shore; seemingly unaffected by the 40-degree heat of the summer sun. His right hand clutching the end of an empty fish basket. And that seemed to affect him more. Death by hunger was always more tangible than death by heatstroke. She glances in the direction of the window and sees the man. Perhaps she did not see the photograph of the silhouetted figure that was taking shape as framed by the window. Either that or she already knew that the image would be lost within the five seconds it would take her to set the camera to the appropriate settings, so she doesn't bother to react. Eventually she stands up and makes her way towards the window. It is her window now. I see her bathed in orange sunlight and she replaces the silhouetted fisherman in my mind. Her nationality is of no concern now. She is right after all.

A man picks up where we left off. From the table, he sees me glancing at the window to his right. He has his camera clutched and ready, anticipating the moment when my eyes would sparkle as I recognize another photograph unfolding. I see a tern, flying in the direction of the sun, and just above the horizon. He is a step ahead of me, racing toward the other window. I hear a single shutter release. He glances at me and I see the sparkle in his eyes. He pulls out a cigarette. I reach for my lighter in anticipation.

The lady in front of me has just finished assembling her camera. Although she seems to have seen the two photographs unfold, she nonchalantly takes her time. Eventually she works her way to the starboard side and I follow. She waits till the sun has dipped halfway below the hill far far away from where we were before she takes her solitary shot. My eyes do not sparkle, not quite sure of what she had just seen. She says she had just documented the death throes of the sun, at least for today. Poetic justice is what I read from her face. She had watched the moment that the sunlight died that day. Barely three days after the sun had taken a friend of hers, away.

Death by heatstroke.

Jesus Paul C. Yan

for The Paul Yan Chronicles, 2010

acknowledgements: Dol & Janneth Tenorio, Ed Casilao, Ana Murillo.

Sunset photo by Ana Murillo, April 10, 2010.