Thursday, July 28, 2016

Things I remember

I remember I had somewhere to run to when I was in trouble. I remember you telling me I'd always have that place. I could always come to you. But you are gone and I have nowhere to go, you know? I remember things would be all right. I remember you used to say this to me. I remember 

I remember I loved to read on lazy Saturday afternoons and easy Sunday mornings. I remember lying in a hammock with a book, overlooking the lake. I remember we could not swim in it then, we could only look at it. Most of the times it was bathed by the sun and its waters sparkled silvery stars here and there. I remember there was never much rain. And when there was rain, it used to fall diagonally. You told me this was the only place on earth rain would fall diagonally. I am not sure about that anymore.

I remember I could be anything I dreamt. One day I would be everything I dreamt. I remember the only place I would feel safe was the only place I would feel fear. And the only place I would feel fear was at home. I remember there were many rooms and nowhere to hide. I remember fear had me running from my bedroom to the bathroom, locking the door, waiting for silence, running back again to the room, locking the door. I remember you telling me to stay in my room until you'd come back. I remember, years later, you told me you were trying to protect me. I remember I tried, one day, to add up the afternoons I spent hiding in my room, afraid.  One year of my life was wasted locked up in a room, in fear.

I remember you telling me there was always going to be an open door for me there. I remember I believed it. I remember that when I came back from the dead and you became a child again, no longer the owner of your own fate, my room was clustered with things belonging to other people, even the bed occupied. I remember feeling it did not matter if I was dead or alive. Dead seemed the best option. There would be more space. I remember I said nothing. I just stood there and stared at the books unread, the unwanted decoration and  all the out of fashion dresses, shirts,  that occupied my place in that room.

I remember that room had a view to the lake. It had a shelf by the window. It was used both as a desk and a bench. Sitting there, I would contemplate the stars at night, I would dream. In that big big house, that room was where I lived. Nothing could harm me there if the key was turned, if the door was locked.  But, there was no room for me anymore. There was no place to hide and feel safe. Someone had closed the door you promised to keep open. I sighed and left. I remember you made me promises you could not keep. And now,  there is no room, there is no door and there is no you

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