Memory

What if it was still 2012?

You were getting late for school. You showered and hurried to press your uniform. Mom kept your tiffin ready on the table. And you see your dad pressing your clothes for you. And you pause. But only for a second. Because you’d be late otherwise. But the sight of your dad doing something for you, which he doesn’t even do for himself stops forever in your memory, registered like an emergency thought reserved for a tumultuous time in the future, to make you smile and give you hope, just in case.

.

It’s new year. And you wake up fresh and happy. Your dad wishes you and his voice is full of excitement. You resonate and hug him. Say happy new year and feel something very very reassuring.

.

It’s winter. Your grandma is around. She doesn’t speak much. Never asks for anything. But your love for her keeps overflowing. But you don’t tell her that you love her. You peel oranges and cut fruits for her. You know she’ll say no when you offer. And she’ll keep saying no and then when you will not retreat, she’ll accept it and eat with you. You talk to her in silences. You know this language best. You hear her footsteps and you know she’ll come and look in all the rooms and stop only when she finds you.

.

.

.

Love exists in so many places, forms and memories.