Patchwork Promise

By Gowri Mohan J

I wonder how it would feel like to speak of wounds without inviting pain. It's wearing me out, masquerading as someone who looks as if they've got it all together. Ludicrous are the lengths you can go to put up with your act. Anything to not look the truth in the eye.

Lead coursed through my veins in lieu of blood whenever I took to ordinary dues. From leaving the clothes out to dry, to dusting the shelves that didn't really do a good job at keeping the books pristine, doing the dishes, swishing the cobwebs down with the end of the broomstick, mopping the floor till I'm practically overdoing it, to finally - though I only ever played it out in my mind to satiate an impulse that keeps tugging from within - packing my bags to leave.

I'd like to think I would be leaving. Where or how weren't relevant. I only believed I would to get through certain days. Maybe it's nothing but a long walk to clear my mind. Maybe I might never look back. But the thought of leaving behind remorse was too tempting to not entertain. I wanted to do more than run away from it, actually.

I wanted to renounce it.

And like a stray cat that refuses to leave my side, it trails behind me inspite of my futile attempts to shoo it away.

I never stopped to think that maybe it was the house that needs refurbishing; This life that needs replenishing. Oh, how surprisingly easy it can be to overlook the obvious. How easier to curse the rain while denying that you had secretly prayed for it.

Words imitating orchid seeds that were dispersed by the wind, cruised endlessly away from me. And when the earth of my spirit turned barren, seeds of silence got planted in their recesses. And without much rain or share of sunlight, they began to grow.

Presumably they might either uproot with a single pull or have deep-seated roots. I never bothered to check. I'm not even sure I want to know. This scepticism was just as much comforting as it was agonizing. What good would an anwer bring anyway if not more foreboding? Once these uncertainties fade away, choice would await. A choice worthy of setting the present in stone, impelling it out of a hiatus.

My heart has closed many doors. But it left some of the windows open; To peer out into the world, saturated by pipe dreams and irksome obligations. I slide the curtains back just a little each day to gaze out at the porch for news I long to hear.

Someone's waiting.

Is someone returning?

Even envoys of consolation would rarely come knocking at the door. I know that, and yet, lately I've been having a dream.

Or was it a vision?

Dare I admit it's a desire.

A grade schooler with collar length hair and lanyard glasses peering up at me, reaching her hands out to cup my face. You don't know me but I know you. I know you like one knows a dear friend they grew apart from. Everything's the same and yet nothing will ever be the same again. I wish I hated you. I almost did. Things would've be easier if I had. But memories don't work like that. The part of my life from where you're from has long dried up of lush and spring. Even so, I can't beat the feeling like I owe you something. Happiness, hope, unbridled optimism - things that used to come naturally once. I don't want to send you empty handed but I have nothing left to give. My younger self.

The faintest sign of recognition lights on her face before the image turns to white.

By Gowri Mohan J