Beauty Seen is Never Lost

My little sister; she had a too-featureless scrapbook for an 8 years old– one of those with glazed pages that smelled like newly-bought school textbooks and fresh-off-the-stand magazines . She’d stretch its empty pages out on her Dora-imprinted blanket and place her little palms on the surface. “It’s too heavy”, she’d claim, “ I always run out of pages,” ; and the pages knew how to hold the pretense of containing it all ; a twist of her reflection, her always color-coordinated glasses, and that epic toothless grin.
Every time she’s asked about it’s contents, she’d circle her fingers around the borders, and say with utmost confidence,“ But don’t you see it? It’s where I keep them all; the kisses, the hugs, and the ‘well-done’ pats,” She’d take you then back to page one, and guide you all the way to the back cover ; million of off-to-school morning kisses, thousands of I-love-yous crowding unseen margins, and a whole world of smiles : her oldest brother tying her shoes, her dad trying to unscrew her nailpolish bottle, her 2nd grade teacher giving her the largest performance star; she’d take you through them all, until you’re left breathless,
That’s her scrapbook,
Mine, however, had no pages – for I wore it around my neck like a string of impossibly-knotted beads – strung together with such sacredness, such delicacy-that without it, one would easily wilt to the grave.
It’s made of that 8 year old girl, and of them-

Of that 12 year old boy- with his Pikacho Pijama pants and dream-cake cravings- how he chases that lonesome rabbit out of its hole, towards the carrot crumbs; how he sits infront of the barbeque fire with hands copying his English Homework and eyes watching his roasting marshmallows; how he flips on that unguarded trampoline with mischief and undoubted expertise; how he runs with all his might with someone’s gift safely tugged under his arms; how he giggles while reading the latest copy of “ Wimpy Kid”; how his heart is wrapped with an unfound tenderness, how he brings life, to life.

Of those random-outing days with my best friend – with car-filled conversations amidst crumpled cd covers, heavy scents of broken perfume bottles, and university booklets – how we tread topics like equestrians on the run, how we mount to utter joy, fall to complete devastation, and then mount again ; how we outline café visits and embrace papercups; how we condemn trivialities over plates of salted-calamari and mozerella salad ; how we drown in detail; how we drown in music, how we drown in ‘now’, ‘then’, and ‘because’.

Of that trail of memory I leave between the pages of my books – with lines; strands of them, emptying that well of nostalgic indentation within me; how hollow it makes me feel; how beautifully it carves the images of those I’ve grieved, of those who’s loss I’ve never learnt to quell; how it brings forth those long summer days with premium vividness, how it brings forth sidewalk laughter and rainy afternoons.

All of it; all of them- this sacred scrapbook, this personal rosemary beads of mine- had dismantled my nights and left me weeping in the wreckage- this fragileness of it all, this proximity that lies in the slash of Everything/Nothing, takes my breath away so vigorously; I can’t lose sight of it anymore. Not for a moment, No.

Posted by Diddlina at 6:18 PM