Monday, 28 April 2014

The Persistence Of Memory

The Lost & Found Department,
The Universe

Dear Sir,

There are somethings I seemed to have lost along the way:

That night in August when it rained too hard and I went to bed early.
A crumpled, yellow paper napkin on which we doodled and detailed, reasons why we would be famous by 2020. The first time I saw ‘Into The Wild’. The last time I took Disney soundtracks seriously. The first time I told you I loved you and  buckled under the sheer relief and horror of having said it out loud.

My first drink which I sipped nervously and that second which I gulped down too fast. That almost worn out, red dress which fit me like a second skin at 22 . That July when I spent every evening watering the garden with my grandmother wondering why summer vacations seemed to stretch on forever. That last summer vacation. My left earring from the first friends' wedding I attended. My gold ring from a baby shower I went to this Saturday. 

The day before the day I learnt that ‘postmodern’ was a term which simply meant “everything’s ok, everything goes”.
The first night I spent talking to you till 4am in the park, convinced that I could never run out of words around you.

That afternoon in college I spent staring at blades of grass because class got cancelled and we had nothing better to do. 
The day after when I concluded that being bored was a burden.
 The frenzied belief I had in every promise you made. The joke I refused to laugh at because I was mad at you. Almost all of the times I’d been mad at you. 
All the evenings I spent last year, being stuck in traffic. The eve of my 25th birthday when I realized that adults are also, in fact, just winging it. The day in school assembly we played that mean prank on her. The earnest effort I put in the first work report I ever submitted. The semi derision and boredom with which I approached the others that followed. The feverish belief with which I argued that love is in fact simple. 
The first time I ran out of words with you. 

                                              Over the Seine, image from (here)

The beach vacation we took in January two years ago. Telling my friend I would punch the guy who broke her heart and not following up. The decision I mostly just talked myself into. The almost toxic hope, potato chips, fizzy drinks, enthusiasm and air that my 21 year old self survived on. Not wishing on a coin in the fountain, like my dad said I should. The draft of my first poem I threw away. The keys I lost for the locks I finally forced open. 

The stories I stored up to tell you for the next time we’d meet.

The music cassettes and my worn-in sweatshirt which I misplaced the last time I moved apartments. The pictures I didn't take with my dog because we were too busy playing. The markers of ‘me’ around a city I no longer lived in. The three girls with knee scrapes identical to mine. The secret password we made up for our play meetings.

What you said after the words, “I need to go”. 

The will to stop you.

On second thoughts, if you do find these. Do not return to sender.

                                         (Salvador Dali, for post title credit. And photo credit: here)


  1. Came across your blog thru fb, Love how you end it, really nice!