the half of a pair

It's the month of December and my only brother is getting married within the week. Yes, it's December again and the time to celebrate my wedding anniversary as well. Whew marriage!

Being married for me does not indicate being bound. Rather, it is the string that holds me strongly when my kite reaches and flies for the sky. It is the anchor, and the comfort after an MBA school night's ride from the rain.

But being married is taking your role as a half of a pair. Simply put, it means sharing spaces.

It is his blue towel and my white towel side by side in the rack.

It is his sandalwood and my white musk bars together in the soap dish.

It is his two blue big pillows in the left side of the bed and my two white big pillows in the right.

It is his golf bag parked below my badminton bag near the main door.

It is his Polo Ralph Lauren Blue and my Bulgari Omnia Crystalline both forgotten in the bedside table.

It is his khaki pair of Crocs tumbled along with my 18 good pairs of sandals.

It is his "The Temple and the Lodge" and "Recon Marines in Vietnam" paperbacks gathering dust beside my "Atlas Shrugged" and "The First Wives Club".

Being married is my small-sized pink gym shirt inside the hamper, and his large-sized t-shirt on the floor tiles, just a few inches short of landing in that same hamper.

Being married is staying together under the same roof while facing different laptop screens. And it means him taking trips to Duka Bay for a branch visitation or me flying to Manila for a project proposal writing workshop - and for the half of the pair who is left, to realize that seeing only one toothbrush in that cup, and the surprising space in the master's bathroom sink, just does not feel right. Nor enough.

It is that warm thought of being a part of someone else. A saved reminder tucked somewhere inside you.