Yes, you have read that title correctly. I want to believe that all of my posts contain one element of this word in one way or another, but today’s post is a little closer to my soul. There is nothing specific that labels it to make my titling job easier — so I decided to call it what it is. It is me putting some feeling inside of me into words. A memory written on paper. Well, typed on a thin film transistor liquid crystal display but it’s paper at heart. Anyways, let’s get on with the memory.
It was a beating heart. Remembering how it felt to sit with him makes me hear the sound of a beating heart. I can remember feeling the warmth of the blood rushing and listening to the quiet cogency of the heart pumping. And I can’t understand why it is the symphony of the heart, but I swear that that’s what the memory makes me hear. I hear how it was in those moments of his company – when the world around me was muted – that my senses would do nothing but listen.
I listened to his stories and smiled when they were heroic. And lived through his words to sulk when they were stoic. There was a merriment that I wouldn’t emanate anywhere else and there was a form of realism that entered my soul only when I was with him. It was like my regularly severed mind and body blended together in an inexplicably harmonious concoction that released this soothing aroma. Minty maybe, or perhaps it was a little more floral.
And then there was the subdued light of that lamp that Mama never let me turn on. That night, only its illumination filled the space in our eyes with just enough energy to adorn his face that was softened with his dark beard of thin curls and his perfect voice that pacified every tumult and tirade. He hummed a tune once. My chin rested on my palm as my ears listened to a splendor. How relieving it feels at this moment to type out these words! They are embracing me with a warm tingling that I am sure you have met before too. It feels nice, doesn’t it? And only in intermittence as well – again with that happiness paradox, but that’s for another post.
The night went on like that – with words and words and ears that listened. I think I could sit with him for the rest of my time on this planet. I hope I do. I hope I can sit with him and learn from his words. And then maybe in another era I could reiterate them as well as he had spoken them. Maybe I will live to know a day that might plead for me during the “End.” I love him. Maybe sometimes I love him more than I love myself from day to day, and that is a milestone.
It is quite bizarre, describing a memory so potent to my hypothalamus. It feels synesthetic, almost like I can taste the pictures in my head. But these aberrant juxtapositions aren’t the purpose of this post. It isn’t exactly my intention to forge a tempestuous confusion – I figure deviating for too long may provoke surliness, and no one wants that. No—
The purpose was to be a mouth to a mind as a painter is to a canvas. The former makes the latter speak when communication wasn’t previously available.
endnote: this feature photo is my own photography