days

I always have an image of a girl, dressed in bright red, (it immediately sounds like a scene from Spielberg's list), sitting in a toilet bowl seat, holding a barbie doll dressed in bright red as well. Then, the whole image of the room will be washed red, till it becomes a bloody blur and she screams a muted cry. And the image will then dissipate and quickly disappear as soon as it was appearing.

Perhaps, that's why she hardly wears red. Perhaps pink. Perhaps the diluted flashes of trauma forgotten. I can't remember how often I imagine this image.

I tend to remember as if I have to replace her memory; and the more she forgets, the more I remember. I guess, that's fine in a way. But the image of the red girl won't disappear. In fact, as I gently cuddle her or stroke her hair back, I imagine her eyes tearing, a transparent blur, instead of a velvet paint which will not show.

Maybe she tears to forget. Maybe each time she tears, the red colour is diluted. Pink. Pink rosy cheeks. All warm and alive. She is alive.

I know that I do not know her. Perhaps, that is why that is the reason for our familiarity. The deep understanding of not having to know any deeper, as if each day is a new canvas recycled from those thrown away.

Those fingers, breaking plastic, tearing the fabric, all torn and tattered. Imaginary friends in far away places. She did not know. She does not remember. Then again, people do the remembering for her. While she does the suffering on her own.

I don't know what I am doing that would make it easy for her. Perhaps, I refuse to believe that we can be easy with life. I would prefer to be told that we can be, through some form of endurance test and that there is some higher purpose we are serving.

when she hugs me, she is actually letting go of the past and embracing the immediate present. fading is the new high.

So as I stand still, and she stands still, we are actually breathing in tandem and in reaction to each other. We do not breathe alone. We move with the rising and falling of our chests. I will be warm when you are cold. And you will be warm when I am cold.

Then I see a new image - an old lady, trotting by the beach in a red summer dress. As she turns back to stare at the horizon, moon spills sun fades, we begin to realise that there are truly miracles that do not have to take the form a material presence. Instead, it is just about being there for each other, however small or insignificant it seems at first.

moon falls, sun rises. red sea, red sea, then a rustle.

-- the simple language of lovers' grace.