Memories

Nishwara Tarannum, 2T5 WB

Every day, he would be greeted with a new set of questions that rolled off her lips like a poem, and with a heavy heart, he would turn away. A part of him wanted to spare her the pain. Yet the thought of her visage being illuminated by darkness and suffering was too much of a burden to bear. “Her obliviousness will be the death of her,” he had said one evening, chuckling to himself. How carelessly he had uttered those words.

It simply wasn’t up to him to answer her questions. Her world needed to reflect reality. All he could do was hold the mirror. And so, they lived their paradoxical lives, comforted only by slumber.

But even then, she found a way inside, warping into his dreams and reminding him of the moments they had shared.

They had settled into a bucolic area, where the flowers grew wild, and life seemed serene. She was hesitant to step into the sea of unfamiliarity, but soon tailored life to help her heal her wounds and begin anew. She was a woman who treasured every fabric of existence, every remnant of the past. So, she would keep with her little reminders of the life she had lived. Her favourite was a pair of sandals that she considered an heirloom with intricate floral patterns woven into the edges, dusted with gold glitter. It was passed down from her ancestors, and she had not let it out of her sight ever since.

“I like to think each generation walked around different corners of the earth in these shoes, touching human lives in the process,” she explained, back when he wasn’t the one living for the both of them.

Now they were just two souls just passing through, who simply existed together. Around her, he’d learnt to craft a new persona, one he would don on like a mask. But at its core it was a facade. A mere illusion of who he was.

Sometimes, he caught himself taking in the entirety of who she was. The way her luscious hair cascaded down her back and gleamed like gold when the sun hit at the right angle. The way her hips swayed as if she was eternally bound to dance, exuberating grace. The way her fingertips traced the strings of her viola to produce mellifluous melodies.

One night, as he was headed to the porch, he saw her under the luminous sky, looking at the stars whose light was nothing in comparison to her and trying to make sense of the world. The temperature had just dipped below zero, the coolness prickling his skin. The leaves rustled, the wind howling across the night, as they both stood in silence.

“Do you know why we call them memories?” she asked, stopping him dead in his tracks. He was always surprised at her sudden comments. He tread carefully around her so as not to break her frail state.

“Why?” he asked sheepishly.

“Because they serve the human race with a series of nostalgic moments that for a brief second envelop us,” she answered.

After that encounter, the questions simply stopped. He saw less of her every day, her image slowly turning into a distant memory. Her footsteps became less rhythmic and more urgent, as she walked around the house in her treasured sandals. The scent of incense lingered at the tip of his tongue, as she came and went, so distinct that he would crinkle his nose when he became too aware of it.

He grew so accustomed to her presence, so comfortable with her movements around the house that he truly never prepared himself for the worst.

It was a moment that he knew was long overdue, a moment he had come to terms with. He had never anticipated a farewell, a closure of some sort that would signify the end. As the rules of nature state, the kind of alchemy that presents itself as the giver and taker of things, he had to lose her.

Again.

His mind drifted to that night, where their lives collapsed, and she took her final breath. He had spent years finding a way to cope with the grief, as it consumed him from the inside. But it never did.

Loss can redefine an individual. To summarize her in a few poignant words would be to belittle who she was.

He would rather tell her the alternative answer to her question.

They are called memories, for they capture the essence of the past and form the foundation for the present.

She had attained the peace and liberty that only she could have provided for herself. She finally stepped out from oblivion.

She finally became a memory.