speckled soup

when we were younger, our weekly outings grew to be too often for you; and so we set it back – to months, and soon they too found a deeper respite in the form of years.

I’m not sure where to begin, but what other choice should i pick, other than to remember the good parts. Bits and bobs float around, without a solid body or conclusion. I remember only snippets, but all in colour and much, too vividly. Surely every being on this earth has memories they too, would like to erase completely. For reasons pertaining mostly to how much internal anxiety and suffering these painful memories, induce.

A familiar street, and drinking soup from a bowl I remember to be white. possibly speckled with cream embellishments. The jar of pickles, that sat like an elephant in the room and you telling me that they were in fact pickled cucumbers. A cookie milkshake, as we sat beside a window. There was just enough light in the diner, and it was a warm afternoon. Small black birds took their rest at the edge of concrete curbs.

It was quiet, perhaps a certain time of the day – caught in the middle between minutes. Just here, for the passing.


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