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secret windows (don't look back)

I found myself in a conversation with an old friend, about the crossroads of writing, nostalgia and memory. "Distance and perspective are the upside." I said. "The slippery slope is romanticizing and being nostalgic. Well, that's the memory trap no matter who you are."
"It's funny... I spent most of my life thinking that I had a rather dull adolescence, and it's only recently that I've discovered that these stories are a lot more interesting than I gave them credit." My friend replied. I admitted that I gravitate towards stories that are based on a mistake, a lie - thinking you had some great childhood, when actually it was a shitshow, and you fantasized about being adopted but sort of blocked that out.  


The question wobbled around inside my head for a few days. Was I too fast to judge nostalgia, to quick to brush aside its sweetness, stepping over it towards something invariably darker and sadder?  On Sunday, I was walking on Kutuzovsky,…

in-between (there is no name)


The streetlights blink off, and we cross the road in darkness. Our breath hangs in the air. There is a tent of trees going yellow and brown, a wet path, a certain silence reserved for making our way in a dark like this. 

This is the moment, when dawn has not come and the night is surrendering. We are in-between. 

Our steps make soft noises as we weave around the biggest puddles. Old women suck on cigarettes. Young men stick their chins in the air, putting their hands in the pockets of thin coats. A dog pulls hard on its leash. E looks up at me, her face glowing in the dark air. She knows I must go away soon, for some days. This is the last morning we will walk to school together for a little while. 



Later she will jump on the bed and sing some Ramones at the top of her lungs. She will cry for a while in my arms. We will pack a bag with her toothbrush, a comb, her school clothes. I will tuck a fresh empty journal in them, with a message from me on the front page. 

She will ask me later what it says, as no one can read my handwriting. I told her to write it all down, everything she feels when I am away. I tell her it will make her feel better. I promise this. 

"Just like your Monday stories?" She asks me.
"Exactly." I say.

On the plane, I keep thinking of that moment when the streetlights go off, that in-between feeling. Not here, and not there. Not night, not dawn. It has no name.


Comments

Mely said…
Have a safe trip.

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