Sting in the Tail

It's a month or so, for that day to come around again. A day on which I know that you and I will be doing the same thing - Celebrating. You might not put much store in religion, nor in occasions of state (not that I know which nation you belong to now), but there is, of course, that one day in a year which you will be marking with joy, I hope. A few years in the last decade, I have marked that day too, perhaps not with joy, as much as with re-living a few memories.

I remember the one time my hand was on yours. The earth stopped turning, and my mind refused to hunt frantically for some way of prolonging the moment I discovered electricity. Nevertheless, on some nights as lonely as mine often are, I can still feel my fingers trace the lines not of my destiny.

I remember the one time I touched your hand, briefly. I stopped you in the middle of the road, we paused to let the vehicle go past, I paused to capture that touch. We walked across the road, and then, one day, you were gone, across cliched oceans. Should I have held your hand, waited for you to snatch it back? Would you have let it stay? I didn't have the courage for it then; in truth I don’t have it now even. Anonymity makes for the most revealing confessions.

I remember the one time you came to a place I then called home. There isn't, any longer, anything memorable about that day, but your presence. You left, too soon, with someone else, but, most days since, when I went back home, I came to you. I wish I had walked with you that evening, but I was foolish, as youth often is. I am no wiser now, but accumulated foolishness passes quite frequently for wisdom.

I remember the, too few, letters we wrote. My first one began with a fairy tale. I knew, I suppose, that we somehow weren’t real. Some of yours lie still in my suitcase of memories, along with a note. The decade old paper shows signs of age, the ink is fading, but the near child-like sentiments shine clear through.

I remember the one time I saw your tears. I was slightly tipsy that night. If only I was drunk, I would have gotten on the train and travelled with you. As it was, my lips un-stiff upper-ed enough to ask you to call me on Monday. You never did, or if I called you, we spoke of the weather and the trains running late, I imagine.

I have often wondered where you are. Two years after you flew away, I even made it to the city you left for. When Google became a verb, I searched for you, but all I ever found were recipes. Ironic, considering that we were in high spirits once a week, but never did go out for dinner, or lunch, or breakfast. I am even now unable to decide whether those were dates, those evenings, never over until the pink lady stung or it was 8PM (!) - whichever was earlier. They probably were not, but who's to gainsay it?

I wish, I wish, and if wishes were pennies, I can now lay beneath your feet fields of gold.