Remembering Marie

Have you ever stuck your tongue out, in the rain?

To taste the clouds behind the brewing storms and the colour of white burnt black. 

The echoing shades of lightning strikes bellowing the smell of scorched air. And amidst all this, the unyielding sun, brazenly fixed in its place, unmoved, unhindered.

Then the taste of rain, in dense waves of colour, reminding you, that you are present. That it isn't a simulation.

But then again, it wouldn't be any good if that's all it took for you to figure it out. 

So, you hold her hand, searching for the stories behind her wrinkled skin. Stories she says, are filled with you. Your fingers scaling her faded scars, ever so slowly, ever so slightly pressing upon those that feel familiar, hoping it would rupture these old wounds of memory and bleed you back into the present. 

From the past? From nowhere.

The room feels familiar, her smile seems to know you. All you are sure that you know, is how to tell them apart. The smiles.

Those that are perfectly weighted, meant to make you feel comfortable, at ease in oblivion. Those that shoulder a strange sense of guilt behind them, hoping for liberation. And then hers. 

An equation of depth, elusive and yet homing you in on something, you don't quite get.

And suddenly, you can't feel the scars, the bumps, the wrinkles. 

The colour of blue, her nails longer than they were a minute--or were they? And softly, gently, her hand fills yours with the warmth of youth and the colour of green. You follow as she pulls you through the murky path to what perhaps may be, the present: from nowhere.

But somehow, you can still taste the rain. Gradually, your feet start to notice the wetness of the ground and her panic as you begin to sink. Panic that starts to sound like tears. Louder still, until everything doesn't sound like anything anymore.

Nothing but tears you are sure you could tell apart. 

From those that wish you well, beneath the well-masked pain, glinting hope. 

From those that are distilled from the breweries of despair.

And then hers, different. 

A jolt of pain startles your senses, as her fingers, smaller, frailer, pinch the centre of the backside of your palm. You reciprocate. She reciprocates. A familiar childhood game is born. 

The colour of red and the flush of her cheeks. 

'Black girls don't blush,' she snickered. 

'I thought so too,' you went. Reflexively, almost like this exchange had happened or that it was happening as it always should have. 

'You tell him or I will,' you smile. 

She laughs. Her set of teeth still full of missing gaps.

And the colour of yellow, at the striking sound of her joy, calming the music of many moods. Moods that had followed you here from nowhere. Moods her missing milk teeth had fixed. Were fixing?

Right then approaches, the coldness of broken gears, incapable of turning. The watch ticking the wrong way; when it is ticking. And the frustration behind the uncertainty of whenever that will be, if it ever is. 

The colour of brown and the smell of paint. A house filled with unfinished self portraits. The scent of age permeates the all-embracing cobwebs, trying to whisper a memory. 

But the past is not your problem. The present is. Perhaps it will be helpful. Perhaps it will only fuel the confusion. 

But the thought of something bothers you. The thing at the tip of your tongue, that reminds you of the rain.

You find yourself battling the songs of spiders, despite the rising fear. A sign you should stop. A sign you should go further. 

There haven't been any signs before, or have there?

At the heart of this painting, is you, just another self potrait. But the next one might just be--also you. And there in the corner of the room, the scent lingers. You could swear it was beckoning you closer with its index finger. The battle continues. The fear rises. The tension gripping. And it's you. Just you. Wait. With someone else. All you see first is the smile. One you just know you could always tell apart. 

From those that smile from a distance and those that smile closer to the heart. 

Your fingers trace the figure of this seemingly forgotten art.

Searching for scars or bumps or wrinkles that would tell you more than the tears in your eyes. Much more than the scathing feelings of white burnt black. And the more you know, the less you wish you were here. Present. 

But you have to know because nowhere doesn't just feel worse, it feels worse without why. 

And there on the canvas, lies the picture of truth, growing clearer with the memory of her smile. A smile quite like yours. A smile dangerously similar. A smile only you could tell apart, from yours. All at once, this very smile unleashes an eruption of stories. Stories of her and you. The watch crystal of your watch breaks. And so does time. Now you know where here is. And why you hate it. Because for the longest time, here was wherever she was. Here was wherever she would be. And so when she left, here went wherever she did.

The colour of grey and the texture of the pale shawl of old age, wrapped around your neck. Barred windows and locked hospital doors to keep you in check. An entire wing, just for you, mixing present, past and future in a loop.

5, 15 and 50 all at once, searching for the reason you always feel so stuck.

'I've been, I've been trying for a while now, to remember who you are.'

'It's you, isn't it.'

'How can you look so young when we're the same age?'

'Is it just me, or did you get taller?'

'Where've you been all this time? Loneliness almost had it's way with me.'

'Loneliness had it's way with me. It really did.'