By Sahana Arumugam
It's been a hundred thousand days,
and in the lull of the morning sleep,
my feet still drags me to our front porch,
in search of black fur and wagging tail.
My front porch has been empty
for a hundred thousand days now.
I was telling a friend the other day,
how it's not talked about enough;
the way people and places leave us,
but never truly let us go.
It's been fifteen odd years,
and I can barely remember the face
of my best friend from middle school,
but I remember her home's landline number.
She hated pink, loved painting her nails
and knew four languages.
I ask a faceless version of her now,
What do I do with all this information?
Do you remember me the same way?
Are you doing well?
I remember the scent of our old house,
a unique blend of coffee, jasmine and laughter.
I remember the leaky tap, the creaking door,
and the fading flower printed curtains.
It's like I'd been there yesterday.
I hadn't been there for twenty years.
My mum and I never refer to her mum
in the past tense when we talk about her.
It's always 'she is' and never 'she was'
and neither of us corrects the other.
My kindergarten teacher has watery eyes,
and brings her lunch in a bright blue box.
She writes her 'G's the way I still do.
I do not know if she's alive now.
Memories has made me a museum,
and I wish I could let their subjects know.
I remember you. I do.
You are long gone. But you're still here.
A hundred thousand days from now,
I would have hoarded another thousand more.
My museum, a worn out wooden chair,
groaning under all the weight.
My memories, an unruly graveyard,
a ghostly catalogue of everything undead.
I was here, they tell me.
I was here. And I was alive.
I had lived. I had loved. I had lost.
But I was here. And I was alive.
I am here. And I am still alive.