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Sometimes,
waking up from a dream – a nightmare,
there’s
the flutter and weight of panic because
some
image within grasp, that should’ve been clear,
has
spun beyond reach, gone into the shadows.
Some
keystone that should’ve been, but isn’t, there.
Mother
had this tiny moonscar on her face
and
you know the backstory – the childhood fall,
the
exposed nail. You still know its crescent shape,
but
for the moment you cannot quite recall
was
it on the left or right? – its exact place.
You
slip from your moorings to such an extent
that
you can’t somehow see her scar one strange night –
you
flail around in sleep. So much of it depends
on
perfect recall when it’s gone out of sight.
So
much of love and memory is placement.
I don't know how this is even possible but I feel I'm both bogged completely down and run off my feet simultaneously with this ongoing flat project. So many formalities, so much paperwork, so much clearing up to do before I can even think of handing it over to anyone. Long way to go. Even though my parents were uber considerate and wanted their daughter not to be inconvenienced by anything, especially my father. They were quite obsessive about leaving no loose ends. Consequently, everything was decluttered, sorted, filed away and clearly marked, the important, the not so important, the trivial but of potential sentimental value, all.
My father was a storage whisperer, he dreamt up cabinets/shelves/bins even before anyone fully articulated the thought that a space was needed to put the books/sewing machine/shoes/bed sheets etc somewhere. It's a tiny flat, but there's storage tucked everywhere - box beds, a divan, ottomans, bookcases and a bucket load of cabinets and drawers dotted across the main sitting room and bedrooms. In one of them, I found a whole bunch of their letters to each other from the early days of their marriage to their time in Nigeria till they came back finally. Roughly twenty years. They had been married for over 57 years when my mother passed.
I've bundled all the letters up and brought them away - one can't leave them there for strangers to sort out and dispose off. I'm struggling with the propriety of reading them - on the one hand there's the lure of a completely different perspective, peeking into a different time altogether, unknown or little known family history. On the other, it feels vaguely wrong, intrusive and disrespectful. Besides, it also requires a heap of time, which is in super short supply at present. So I'm doing a Scarlett O'hara on it - I'll think about that tomorrow. Never a better time to procrastinate.
In the middle of all this, we are travelling out in a few days for the rest of the month. This was planned way back before the whole sale thingy started, naturally. I am split down the middle on this as well. Happy to get away from the incessant rush but also chafing at the temporary halt it means. Oh well, c'est la vie. Kabhi kisi ko mukammal jahan nahin milta. Which means no one ever gets everything he wants handed to him. A break is probably just what I don't want but need.
Hope the season is going well for you and nothing in your world is split down the middle. :) Stay well and unsplit. See you at the end of the month, when I expect to get back to reading and writing as per my normal routine... - ish.
Ciao for now.
