There so much I shouldn't say. There's so much I want to say.
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Things, for instance. Back when I was married and the house revealed shrines in unexpected places - whole cupboards with a dead man's clothes, suitcases filled with negatives and yellowing scripts (we're talking in plurals here; I'm aware of it), gas and electricity bills that still came in the name of someone who was no longer there - I wondered what this was about. Rain came and they said, "that's Bapu." They were not talking about M.K.Gandhi.
It has taken me a dozen years to come to the understanding of that time. If they discarded every object associated with a beloved one, where are the aids to memory?
Already I remember so little. If I throw away tear up fill up forms in triplicate to request mutations, will I have only a few photographs left to look at? How can I take responsibility for that second erasure?
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1 comment:
Hey Stranger - I am probably crashing a few identity boundaries here. Take heart...! When I find myself in moods such as the ones in your post, I imagine like this: our loved ones while they were alive always struggled to give us a gift that was more precious to them than their own lives. They just couldn't get around to do it, because we were busy disagreeing, busy outliving our lives. Then these loved ones come to a realization that they have only one option. To pass away and make room for that larger-than-life gift. This gift is the gift of re-collection. There are moments when I feel life vibrates stronger, livelier and brighter in re-collection than in the jade promenades of a hollow house called Life.
Regards,
Crazyfinger
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