When the sun did not rise that year we thought it was the end of the world. The moon grew in size until night was day and day was night. We were relieved, we wouldn’t have to grow up.
But the tide never came, there were no fires, no thunder in the sky. There were no people crying. We lived, we made our money, we held our cigarettes and we read our books. We did all that but we never saw the sun again. Nobody spoke of it a second time. They forgot about sunlight and sunsets and shadows and rain and sweat and warmth and longing for winter and when winter came, longing to be sane. They forgot all of it.
And then you held my hand and took me someplace quiet, up those stairs carved out of dirt, up those trees that still stand there, behind the water and the smoke where nobody would hear us. And you closed my mouth with your cold, cold hands and spoke with conviction I never saw in you again. It felt like a sin. And you told me about the sun and its rise and fall and of rain and the sea and of sweat and heat and right then we were the only ones in the entire world that hadn’t lost their minds.
I would never tell you this, I would not let you suspect it. But it was true. At first, you were only precious because you were dying. But then my room was full of you. Your incantations that would one day run us great luck, your china pot and kettle, the greenery in your closet, your ceramic cups. Our crossword puzzles, which we never loved enough to finish but could not throw away. My bell-bottoms and your cold, cold hands. My sickness, your sickness. Our childhoods.
To love is the simpler thing, you said. And I believed you.
And then you were leaving and I was running down the stairs, our lighthouse had cracked open and only hurt was left. I lived with it, you grew up without. But I’m here again and we could have painted the walls with crayons, why didn’t we think of that? I’d draw our hill, our cave, our poetry, the brave. It would have made me happy for a little while. I wonder if you would have stayed if the walls were pink with flowers. Azaleas and baby’s breath. I think we could have tried a fourth time. A fifth perhaps, blame it on the stargazer.
But now, we are walking backwards until we collide. We are talking of women and their men, of the wall, of the weather. Of us. “Does it trouble you too?”, I ask. “Until the end of time”, you whisper. My spine catches fire.
To love is the simplest thing, I think.
I would never tell you this, I would not let you suspect it. But I could forget it all. I could forget your voice, your face, your favourite song. Your wrists, your knuckles, your eyes, your warmth and your kettles and your shoes and your recurring foolish stunts. I could forget the post office, the hills, the caves and the end of the world. Your crying, your breathless crying, your falling to the floor.
I could forget the sun, with time. I could forget you.
But right now, we are walking backwards to each other, you are telling me it is enough that we are here, that we did not grow up after all. And once again, I am believing you.
Ditsa is an 18 year old writer from Kolkata, currently pursuing computer science. Her interests include all kinds of storytelling, from books and films to music and the occasional witty Ted talk.
