There’s just a swirl of memories that keep kicking in. I’ve been saying this for some time now – A life time of grief. A life time of loss.
It’s me saying “Tell me a story” and the story of him being chased through the streets on an island the day before a Tsunami hit or the Scandinavian Bear and King.
It’s Christopher Mccandless and the realization of the conversations we grew up under.
It’s the smell of that red perfume whose name I cannot remember but ascribed to love.
It’s Papa and his hand in my own as I pinched between his Index finger and thumb to soothe myself.
It’s a father figure who never said goodbye.
It’s you – half your body on me, and half on the couch. It’s Lucha rolling on my chest and licking my face.
It’s the way she dropped off a tiffin with food when I told her I was on my period.
It’s her cleaning my chairs with me on the terrace.
It’s a whole community that went cold. I know it has passed by, but what does it mean to know that and also grieve?
What was it supposed to look like if it’s so big now coming in like a tidal wave?
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