You stand beside the gate of your favourite restaurant awaiting the one glorious entity that deserves you and your patience.
You were 2, when you first gained your senses, starting to walk, listen and recall but only to fall and stand back again. It was a glorious moment which is now but a memory in the lanes of a gloomy past.
You smile and remember the days when you were young enough to pretend as if there were none alive but you and the life was yours and yours alone.
Years later, tears roll down your eyes while thinking of the various embarrassing incidents that once happened. You try to forget them and force it only to find that it comes back again with equal force.
Caring never helped.
You were 6 when you left an impression on your teaches, tears peeping out from your mother’s eyes, her head aloft in pride, her little toddler is an extraordinary thing of beauty. You stand behind and giggle.
It was a precious moment, you rejoice and savoir it.
Today your certificates are misplaced, every single one of them and the prizes stacked up in the corner of your room.
You are way too busy to care.
You were 15 when you first failed your exam, a grievous thought on it’s own, equally embarrassing, reckless were your behaviour.
(You remember it to be the first year somebody adored you, called you ‘beautiful’. Late one summer night, by the swings in a neighbourhood park, she kisses you on your cheek, you smile, ensuring trust. Inside you know that tomorrow you will put on your ugly school uniform and go back to normal life.)
You were 46, when you first experienced death — sudden, tragic and wrenching — for the first time. On a bright summer day in your office, you get a call from your cousin who informs you of one of your family member’s death. You are scarred. You drop the phone and run out to your car, steering it towards the exit.
Late that noon, you make a five hour drive down to the hospital, where they have laid out the body, and receive a crash course in pain, the finality of death, and the true meaning of loss. You discover what it’s like to grieve under a terrible thought of shoulda/ woulda/couldas and what ifs that spin in a endless loop, threatening to suck you in.
You are 83 when you sit back and listen to what people have to say again. You’ve started to write. By now, you have given up much in your life — sugar, alcohol, cigarettes, careless relations and worthless men. You try to help yourselves and calm your restless soul. Sometimes you miss your old you, the sense of freedom, open roads, the unpredictability and a terrible glamour of a life less lived.
But by and large you think — and hope — this: “Slowly very slowly, you are coming home. “