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<p>A whisper, and it was gone before I knew it had arrived. None of the dust disturbed on decade old photo frames. Once frozen nostalgia on-demand, replacements for our own memories. None of your ornaments re-arranged - I was never allowed to so much as suggest alterations - everything in its place on shelves suggesting exotic expeditions where we haggle with locals at market stalls, gladly accepting our foreign money; the right time and the right place, just what we needed; seaside towns and their endless provision of authentic antique stores, each as well established as the last to close its doors. None of our important papers, stuffed away in obscure drawers rarely opened, even so much as noticed. Life stories told in bank statements, payslips, pensions, letters from the solicitor, passports, and Christmas cards from names I don't remember... I don't remember you. I know you like a doctor might know his patient, or a teacher his student, or a murderer his victim. You are a name on legal documents; a caricature from memories conjured by statues and paintings; a face in blurry photographs that I've studied long hours into lonely nights, waiting for fleeting sensations that I can never quite grasp onto.</p> |
Zac Herd