The last time I stood in the sun,
damp from Friday nights seemed to dry,
I could feel the cold fading away
the warmth of belonging to myself setting in.
I feel it almost every month.
So on some Sunday mornings they tasted like warm coffee
while they became a bitter nostalgia by Monday afternoons.
And on Friday nights, I would again step out an amnesic
ready to fill the receptacle of my brain with new memories,
colored with the fragrance of fresh orchids.
I repeat the task every month,
waiting for some memory to strike me,
to pierce me,
to break me,
to make me fall,
Because mother often said ‘get hurt. It is only then will you learn.’
And I wanted to be her best learner.
So on some nights,
I would stare at the sky and paint the moon on my skin,
I would copy its shape for regular nights
until the moon disappeared.
From the sky,
and my skin.
‘That is how you need to forget. That is how you forget.’
I would tell myself.
‘Go slow. Break a little part of your memory every day.
And throw it away.
Don’t you see the light that falls on earth comes from that broken piece of the moon?
Can’t you see, that the broken part which aches you is, after all, light?
Can’t you see that even after giving away each memory, you can shine.’
I would convince myself.
So on certain days I stretch my palms in front of me
and watch the memories fall like water droplets from my fingertips,
‘There should be room for permanent ones,’ I whisper to my heart.
‘It is only when someone leaves that there becomes a room for someone to enter,’ I whisper.
‘I know it will ache, but only for a while,’ I whisper until tears start falling from my eyes.
And I transform my palms into fists,
Afraid of losing the ones I always wanted to keep.
On some days, I do that for humans too.
But I never fold my palms into a fist.
I just cry,
I cry until the pain fades away,
Until the silence takes over me.
Until another Friday comes.
You see, after each waxing gibbous and waxing crescent,
waits a full and a new moon.