Dear V,
I know this letter may seem strange considering we
haven’t spoken to each other in two years. I have been meaning to write to
you for a long time, but I was never able to translate the weight of my
feelings into words.
Last week, I was passing by Langford town and it
reminded me of the time we rented that five-hundred square feet crooked house beside
the Cyprus tree. That neighbourhood hasn’t changed much after we left. Do you
remember how every once in a while I’d panic about the house collapsing? You’d
drag me outside to an elevated patch of barren land from where we could see the
entire street. You’d explain that the house was on a slanting street and that
was why it looked crooked. And when I’d nod unconvinced, you’d tickle me till I
shrieked.
That house sure was small, wasn’t it? We’d spend all
our time together sleeping late till Sunday mornings and rainy
afternoons, flipping omelettes in that rectangular blue-walled kitchen, watching
the neighbourhood stray dogs run havoc at twilight and reading Rimbaud and Rumi
to each other until dark skies were swallowed by the sun.
I remember us being immensely happy although at the
time, we didn’t know it. We assumed what we were experiencing was something
we’d feel for the rest of our lives, without having to try. Sometimes, the two
of us from that time seem like faint memories of someone we once knew, but lost
touch with. I still don’t know what led us to grow apart. Maybe, it was because
we met at a time when we weren’t geared for a lifetime of togetherness.
Omi told me you’ve met someone wonderful and that you
both live in a house tucked in the hills bordering Bakloh. Very animatedly, she
also went on to tell me that your fiancée
has eyes that sparkle every time she sees you and a smile that can make a cloudy day blow away. She of course
seemed regretful after blurting this out and grasping my hands, apologised profusely for being insensitive. You know how she is — she doesn’t mean harm.
I know that by the time this letter reaches you, it’ll
be the end of summer and you’ll be married. Lately, I often find my mind
wandering around thoughts of you and her. But I don’t want to think about your new
life in the hills of Bakloh. I’d rather think of you at the terrace of our
crooked house with the wind in our face, my head leaning against your shoulder,
us staring into open skies with Springsteen’s voice in our ears.
(Once) yours,
P
*First published by Women's Web as a part of the eight winning entries for the blogathon contest, Letters to my Ex.
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