Time flies. This was all I heard yesterday. One year already? As if it was only yesterday we placed you in the slow grinding earth. One year already. Time does fly.
It warps memory in its flight as if stretching the thin membrane of my brain and there's so much I want to remember. Mostly, I want to hear you laughing, listen as you discuss pressing issues. You would have found meat in the discourse around this recent elections.
In one year, my memory conflicts. I think of the many times, I caused you to worry and I wonder, am I that man? Am I that lost and sad? Where did all the pain I bear in my heart come from? Why carry this weight on my spine? Now, I have things to worry about. I have to be responsible for what I eat and the air that I breathe. I have to draw a line on how much of myself I give to the world and what will be left when the still warm arms of the same slow grinding earth reaches for me as she has you.
You were one of the best parts of my coming of age story. You saw the tail end of my teenage rebellion. You held on to me. And now, I know you loved me.
Since you've left, so much has changed. In one year, so much has changed. The house has grown quieter, withdrawn deeper into itself. The walls grow dark without the echo of running feet. The nights stretched swollen hands across the tattered horizon of sleep and the prayers are finally silent.
Silence. The one solace of my life has become a thick blanket that suffocates me in that house. The smell of the house fades off and on like the last legs of an echo. I don't know if this means death throes? I don't know if this means I too am fading off? What if it means that again, memory is being salvaged and what is left inside me is the dry kernel of what used to be?
Is this not sadness, the nature of things? I can no longer wonder what is left behind when we leave this place. It is not the things. It is the people. The people are what is left. Some are good, some are dangerously bad. Yet they are people who used to love you or hate you. They are the carriers of your voice, your stories, your actions.
Somehow, we write our stories without pen on the minds of those we encounter. Somehow, we live on, albeit, stranger versions of ourselves. As long as there are people in the house who knew you, who knew of you, you live.
I live too, not yet ready to settle into eternal silence. I wait at the door of everywhere, for me to beckoned in, to become a part of the world. Meanwhile I watch and listen. I laugh and do things. Someone sees me with their mind. Someone loves me. Someone will remember the smell of my skin. Someone will speak of me. I too will live. I must have this hope or all will be dust in my mouth. Au revoir mummy.
