Then let us write for you,

once, clearly.

That you will not have to filter through the piles of ‘you’s and ‘they’s in hopes of catching a glimpse of the you of the past.

–

Since this is also what the future is facing, the present and gift left to be passed.

I write five steps ahead of the vain brain, keeping check on our desire to run away with this entry.

Some more tomato seedlings were transplanted, and the next batch of sourdough is now undergoing autolyse.

Someday in the future when we are free again, in time and in movement, I’ll bring you bread.

Hold one, am I allowed to be your messenger?

If there is a question lingering in your mind that you cannot answer with emotional logic, then my answer is no magic ball eight, but a firm and resolute “Hope, unendingly,” and “Pick what will make you happy.”

I don’t like the idea of being a fortune teller – after all, predictions often give only evil fates and not beautiful fortunes.

Still, and regardless, I remember you in my mind’s eye.

I hope you are smiling, like the version of you in my mental simulation that speaks as I write.

The you who laughs in a green dress and walks like a queen does.

–

Did I ever tell you? I remembered why we couldn’t find quite as many lime plants that day.

I brought just one back to my grandparents’ home one of the A-Level exam days because I thought the garden had a hold on my soul.

It’s doing well, now in a pot there of its own.

I wonder if the garden is well and if our seedlings will survive the month for us to go back and see them.

Will the grass be overgrown? The weeds I took out that day have left their successors and may have burst into bloom like the roadside flowers.

A plover bird in the circumstances, the limes are not like that.

–

Ramadan will end soon, so I won’t be thirsty in the mid-afternoon.

Let’s go back to Act 1 Scene 3 then, cheerfully and uncomplicated.

Memory is such a fickle thing, the events asking to be linked at the

same time whilst fading lonely, the connection fizzling like a soda pop:

Which isn’t culturally relevant, we have mama not pop shops here and

now we have neither, so that’s truly the danger of a literature student who

cannot let go nor embrace it.

Hearing this the poem.

 

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