Yearning

On days when I’m feeling down, not just the average low, but the equivalent of a minus two hundred and eight, I think of a pond with ducks. Perhaps pond is the wrong word because it evokes images of something round, circular, manageable. Bigger than a stream, but smaller than what I imagine most rivers to be – wide enough for a proper-sized bridge. Actually, now I’ve started to imagine it again, its a wide river, wide enough that the houses on the other side are about the size of my palm.

We were going to have our first picnic. It was late September. The Autumn that year was unpredictable, sunny one moment, frosty the next – so instead of guessing how good she would be feeling, we just planned it. I don’t remember the logistics now. We went to the supermarket. We made sandwiches. We bought chips and juice. We laid out a mat. G was late. We were hungry and ate first. I don’t remember the conversations now.

G left. We remained. I remember the large bag of bread we had left. We started throwing crumbs to feed the ducks that surrounded us. We started to name them. Oh, you gave such bad names. Two-face to a frowning duck. On hindsight, it was the only name I remember… not so bad after all I guess. We remained until it was too cold not too. I didn’t even bring a jacket that day.

There were so many happy days before and so many happy days after. Why do I always return to this day? The pond that is not a pond, the river that is not a river? Why every time I close my eyes and ask you if you miss this place, I think back of this moment? I think this was my last few moments of freedom.

I didn’t know how you felt then. But I was falling in love. Only starting to be aware of it. I had the choice. To continue falling or stop then. So, whenever I feel the equivalent of minus two hundred and eight, I go back to this moment. I would choose to remain even after G left. We would decide to feed the ducks with all the bread we had left. And, I would choose to fall for you.