A Ghost

She has invaded my thoughts again. More than a year after I threw her out of my consciousness, she's back. Not with the same vengeance as before but with equal persistence. A year later...but I ask myself: does Time really function here?

Space certainly does: part of the impetus for this unplanned trip down memory lane I can write off to where I am - Peshawar, the regional gemstone capital, where I bought her her first stone. Browsing the gem markets again, dazzled by all that glitter and glamour (so much more vivid set against the dirt and poverty of this city), brings back so many memories. But that life, that timeline has come to an end. In its place, there is S., and another possible future.

And yet...

I wonder if she's changed. If she's happy. If she has spent any time at all thinking about me. I wonder if I've forgiven her, not just rationally - that type of forgiveness is easy - but in that most hidden of personal spaces where we bury our deepest fears and most resolute longings. Am I capable of that type of amnesty?

Has she forgiven me, for lashing out in the end, for the harsh words that poured out of me when silence would have served the better purpose? I wonder if she's kept all of those gems and fabrics and trinkets I picked up for her on my various journeys or if they've been angrily disposed of. I wonder if her back still bothers her or if Grey still pisses himself when he goes to the vet. Do you still dream of Australia or has another part of the world captured your imagination?

I wonder if there's any point to having these thoughts at all.


Then I remember the inspiration she gave me:

Remembrance, or musings on the mysteries of relativity

I

a night when whispers still

cold conversation,

deafen automaton

like desert wind;

a night when sounds define

boundless space,

turn shadows

into sanctuary;

on a night like this:

your voice;

your timbre.

II

with a flutter

it’s gone,

a wayward glance

and every ounce of meaning drains;

a universe created in a simple turning,

savage distance in detail;

but in that instant,

that space between worlds

where our eyes meet,

shape the soft clay of possibilities,

in that instant

of changing forms-

grey-blue moons

like a gift

a drug

redemption

III

memory has a mind all its own

devious and divine,

like sandalwood burning,

like the sweet fragrance of rainfall.

more to the point::

memory demands that I remember

to forsake simple pleasures,

to hold the smell of you,

the taste of you

and measure all things,

all the world’s precious gifts

by the scale you’ve set,

to weigh the pleasures

of this brief existence

against the constant mass

of your unassailable presence

that is my burden

the bitter-sweet chains

of my captivity

Yes, that is the point, is it not?