I’ve written before that sometimes I am haunted by apparitions of the past.
It has not been that bad recently – I would occasionally turn my head to someone with a slightly hunched figure in a white t-shirt and light-washed jeans passing by. I would still berate myself for commenting on well-used pair of Vans when he asked if he should get a new pair of shoes. God, I miss his voice.
Anyway, it hasn’t been bad, I swear. It was just those moments when I was on a walk and a similar figure with a head full of sandy blond hair would catch my attention every so often that I would have to tell myself that there was absolutely no fucking way will he be back in here, a place he left behind for home and for greener pastures.
With the place opening up to the world again and the restrictions that broke and placed strains on relationships being lifted little by little, I feel a surge of hope that needs to be suffocated to death. Yes, I’m talking about those scenes in television dramas where a helpless chap on his hospital bed gets suffocated by a pillow by the villain.
The feelings had an uptick when I was cleaning for the Lunar New Year. Photos and memorabilia of what used to be were unearthed. I wasn’t going to look but the letters fell when I was moving it to store it somewhere else. I sat down and read the first letter and last letter that was sent. Those letters were starkly different. To spare you the details, learning how to read between the lines is an important life skill to acquire early on.
The apparitions – I wish they just would leave me alone.
Allison Lagarde 