dear fig,

i remember you especially on Sundays.

our once deemed mindless chitter chatter, is what i remember in love and sadness. lately, it seems these two emotions have been coupled, as if weaved into unity. it’s odd, i can’t quite understand why, just yet. we were some thousand miles away from one another, but i’ve never felt closer to you, since. our conversations were brimmed with dark humour, dramatising incidents, imitating accents. blown bubbles of reminiscent and nostalgia. we seldom brought up the darker parts- i didn’t mind and neither did you. it was as if we had an unspoken agreement not to, a secret handshake – a code known to no other apart from ourselves.

we were so little, there was such lightness; despite the tunnelling escape, we were forced to slide through. not unscathed of course. there were all sorts of wounds, both gapping and shallow. yours healed a little quicker, but we know how scars are. some days, we’re unconscious of it’s existence and forgetful of how they even came to be. others, well…it’s a little like running your fingers across your skin and stumbling upon the bumps, once flapping open with gushing red.

it’s time for bed soon. the sky was crimson this evening – a beautiful kind of red, still violent but far away from us. in the setting distance, amidst glowing clouds from the warm sunset. i think you might have seen it from where you were.

please write soon, i would love to hear from you.

fondest thoughts,

clare

Fig #2

dear fig,

this summer, you missed the salty earth; wrapping themselves tight, and crashing violently into waves. do you remember the days, prickly with heat. we would trudge the soles of our feet into ochre powdery grains, and watch as they sinked themselves deeper. our backs burnt and glistening; from sunlight. pearls of sweat, appearing on flesh, dancing amongst the reflection of day’s light.

we would imagine the moist, innocent seaside sandbanks as quicksand. ‘we’re sinking! our feet’s disappearing!’ we’d squeal in excitement, a partial half-hearted fear, in suspense that they were actually ‘sinking’. In an heroic attempt escape, you yanked your ankle with great force and proclaimed ‘there! i’ve escaped! hurry, let’s go back before it gets us again’. we’d stay ankle-deep just long enough to watch the bubbling water fill the depressions; where our feet were buried. often, tangled weeds and the odd pebble latched unto spaces between our toes. this did not bother us too much, did it? perhaps we were caught too much in awe, at the magic trick the ocean has been performing with our footprints. it’s disappearance, and reappearance; within split seconds and limited action.

i remember our days with fondness, and this one in particular; and the others that followed closely, shortly, and further into distant days. i would like to write to you more often (even if they might not reach you/you might not read them nor/or reply) too often lately, i have become distracted with everything that is happening inside and outside of me. my breath, cannot be silenced or still. i recall what was once good, even and especially; in our momentary childishness.

all my love,

clare

Fig #1

my dear fig,

it is cold in here. it’s not the kind of cold winter brought to us, back home. i do not see old oak trees, shedding their leaves and letting them loose for they are dead. it is a chill between my ribs. a sharp prick, like a knot tangled somewhere within my diaphragm, and i am choking.

i feel like somebody has snatched my lungs with their dirty hands, and is straining, and sieving whatever is left of it into fine ashes. sometimes, when i look up at the peeling ceiling above me, i see the shape of black moths. enlarging their speckled wings wider, broader. i wonder if they are preparing to take flight. but where would they go, fig? where could they possibly go?

the light peeking from under the cracks are losing it’s glow. this means it will soon be time for dinner, so i have to get ready. has ma moved away from that ol’ rocking chair? in quiet moments here, i can still hear it’s teak, creaking that painful sound.

please write me, and tell me all about your days. i want to hear everything you have to say – about your joy, and the mornings you can’t bear to lift your body from under your bedcovers.

I will write to you again, the soonest i can. fig, i know one day, i will be out of here . there will be better days ahead for us all. long, wilful days filled with piggy back rides, and passionfruit sorbet cones.

all my love and heart,

Clare