Core memories in the making

What more is left to say between us
that hasn’t already been said
by the torrid summers in which we made hay and then climbed atop the haystacks,
our laughter blending with
the chirping of the locusts,
the sweet smell of dry grass,
and the murmur of the nearby spring
carrying unforgettable memories down a stream of nostalgia.
Core memories in the making.

What more is left to say between us
that hasn’t already been said
by the hot summer days when we washed carpets in the yard,
carefree laughter and chitter-chatter blending with
the feeling of blissful togetherness,
the scorching concrete burning our soles,
the homemade soap under our nails,
and the invigorating cold water splashing from the garden hose,
carrying lasting memories down a stream of soap foam and nostalgia.
Core memories in the making.

What more is left to say between us
that hasn’t already been said
by the sweltering August days when we shelled peas and beans,
one heavy sack after another,
our mirthful laughter blending with
the gentle breeze as we sat under the grapevine,
the dirt under our nails,
and the green stains on our fingertips unable to be washed off for the next couple of days,
the tap water carrying deeply ingrained memories down a stream of dirt, soap foam and nostalgia.
Core memories in the making.

What more is left to say between us
that hasn’t already been said?
Words are superfluous
in the face of shared laughter
in the midst of the welcome humdrum,
For we’ve learned long ago
that our lives are defined by the little things
seeping in our veins through the cracks between our fingernails and our skin,
latching onto our aortas,
making their way up to our hippocampi.
Core memories in the making.

– Patricia

I had forgotten

I had forgotten what it felt like
To just enjoy a sunny day,
Amidst the tumultuous events that
Capture me in their claustrophobic cage.
To truly feel the rays of sunlight
Caress my skin and make me whole,
To forget all the endless worries
Which I’d otherwise have to endure.

I had forgotten: teenage freedom…
Those days when I lived in the now,
Without many fears of the future,
Of who I am, if I’m endowed
With enough strength to persevere,
With patience or humility,
Of what will come in the next two years,
Of how much I will change… Oh, dear…

I had forgotten. It feels amazing
To simply have a moment like this.
A peaceful afternoon with sunshine
To remind me of such rare a bliss…
So, here I am, bathing in sunlight
At twenty-two. Nostalgia, peace…
Well, what do you know? Embracing this, I
Forget the depths of the abyss…

– Patricia

Cemetery

Wilted flowers, empty alleys, pilgrim winds and grey tombstones
Holds the hidden cemetery for the melancholic soul.
Memories of passing moments are engraved on each tombstone
For the person who revisits, feeling evanescent, null.

He travels the world forgetting some of them, but he returns.
Every now and then, he visits and remembers who he was,
What he chose, what he experienced, all the people whom he met
And that’s when he stops. He feels like it all was yesterday. 

He looks at them with mixed feelings: happiness, sorrow, regret.
When did they all turn to cinder? Nostalgia. And something else.
Realising what they’re made of, he feels powerless. For they
Are all dust—just like his being. Might not see another day.

Crestfallen, he starts to ponder on his life and what he is.
In the silent cemetery, lonesome winds scatter dead leaves.
Cemetery for life’s moments—numbers growing every day,
Until only one large tombstone—with his name—will take their place.

– Patricia