A Letter from the Other Side

Dearest Mortal,

Can I ask you for something? Don’t refuse me. Please.


Sometimes I can feel. Sometimes. It is but for a moment. An unanchored shard of memory from somewhere inside. A sharp prick of emotion that punctures in and radiates. A shock of nostalgia sweeps through.

An old window, wooden and worn. A shaft of sunshine. Flecks of dust dancing and drowning. The sprawling outdoors with its languid lanes a squint away. I reach for it- an arm through the shaft, the slap of the summer wind and a familiar throb as a surprised skull meets the sturdy panel. I can feel it. Almost.

Pebbles, staunch and shiny. Crunching beneath bare toes. Long, lined fingers. Ten in number. Square nails scrubby with dirt. One scab here, one scar there. Sinking and slipping with every step. Hollow clutters as a few slip down, tumbling into anonymity. A slight creak of spine as it stoops to pick one. Supple finger-pads  against queer lines that goes round and round the pebble. A slight frown as the nails creak, trying to trace the lines. They don’t begin anywhere nor do they end. Almost poetic. Or rather too symbolic. Round and round. Round and round. Wincing further, I toss it into the gutter that gurgles nearby. I hear it hitting the rocks beneath. Almost.

A Smile. Adorning a rather pretty face.Those kind of faces that acquire an allure once lit up by a smile. Not smooth-creased, freckled and lined. All in a nice way. Tranquil, round pearls sitting sane, peeking from behind  silken brown locks streaked with an occasional gray. One. Just one step closer, I can smell it-lemon and lavender. I long to speak words. Whole, healthy words strung neatly. Words that graze across lips and land loud unto the air. Words that were denied a chance. So I choose to smile. Gazing deep into those endless eyes, I smile. Almost.

Stories. Sitting on grandpa’s rocker, swirling from within papa’s pipe. From underneath striped quilts, upon warm beds. Atop apple trees, within apricot seeds. Some sung. Some said. Some sought silently. Snuggling into the quilt, settling by the shade, sauntering off into the dusk, I long to listen. From the wind that wafts. From the drops that splatter pavements wet. From the leaves that whisper as they drop. I drink in these tales. Almost.

You may think I am among the stars. Looking up. Longing in your eyes as you smile ruefully. Stretching a finger, hoping to touch. As you stand there on your porch, the night owls hooting close by. Somewhere far off seems better. Doesn’t it? Well then. Take my word- trust me. Your moments are my nostalgia.Give me one memory, will you? Nothing huge. Something trivial would suffice. Something. Anything. One memory is all that I ask for. One living memory that I shall cling on to. One memory that shall keep me drifting for another era. Waiting. For another. And another.    
                                        
 Love,
                                                One lost spirit