a person is gone- the person went, some space was earlier occupied and now it’s not, a simple plus and minus.
you can try to poke around that person’s life and find a way to fill the void, like finding a piece of sellotape or duct tape to seal the wound shut.
you can deconstruct her room, arrange all her belongings alphabetically and display all her emails, journal entries, and confessions from her phone’s notes app chronologically.
you can print every picture she ever took, build a museum built on memories, tethered by items she touched and lived with, but truly, she must be more than the sum of these objects? is she?
Written by
Milomi.
Inspired by a prompt I found online about the Georgia O’Keefe Museum in Santa Fe, which includes her artworks as well as photos of items she owned, to document her whole life. 2/30.
Three years ago, I sat, buried by my physics textbook, Committing to memory Newton’s three sacred laws Moving, turning pages, coming back for just another look At the formula which escaped me, at another effect of a cause. I was a pendulum in a vacuum- swinging and swinging And swinging again and transforming energy- But never losing it. Precious, loved, and lived-in, My vacuum kept me going, unsurprisingly. I was that person from my textbook, who stood in that moving train, Watching people and stories and struggles whiz by- My life was in motion but I never felt the strain After all, I was standing still. Should I have asked why? It was effortless, this feeling, of going, of movement. I was always swimming tirelessly- a natural flow. Sector after sector, cycle after cycle, stint after stint, Impossible and unimaginable to stop a finger or toe From running again or starting yet another lap For my bravery was bottomless, my thirst unquenched, My words were infinite, my ideas knew no cap,
And inertia worked with me, in sync, till it was wrenched- Surprisingly, unsuspectingly, I met an old enemy- friction. My legs tired, my breath heaved, my mind dipped, The train slowed and the voice announced we’d reached another station. I got off in a haze and couldn’t find my words. I was unequipped For the first time since my introduction to Newton. I was a bowling ball that veered off course, Unwillingly to a stop, before it could strike a pin. This was inertia- the blessings and curse of a force. For months I was a mountain that couldn’t be moved, Standing tall, standing stiff, standing strong, But standing still. Here was Newton’s law proved. I knew Newton could free me, but why did he take this long? Why can’t I be a boulder that is pushed off a cliff To keep rolling and rolling and rolling again, some more, As people and stories and struggles by me whiz, What had I done wrong then? What had I done right before?
Months later, I finally get around to opening Newton’s Principia, I can hear the whistling train not so far away from home- Nudging me to climb on, make amends, and see that opposite me sat inertia. I hope movement roars back to me, being inspired by a tome. I know this journey isn’t effortless and that bravery comes with limits, But none that I can’t graph, solve, and prove. This time, I’m ready to flow and with buoyed spirits, To dance with inertia, to be grateful to move.
I fell down two days ago. Sharp pain, helplessness, tension, all rushed toward me – high tide toward the innocent sea shore – you will not leave this site unscathed. Today, my knee boasts a purple bruise. I made it out of war alive and that is my medal. Tomorrow, I realise my injury is closing up, healing, nurturing. Next week, the scar is not as crimson as I remember it to be. Next year, I will forget what the pain feels like. I despise the fact that wounds heal.
I will never fully remember or be able to replicate that sharp pain. A faint scar on my knee may or may not remind me of the memory, A gruesome picture might make me wince, but never again Will I bask in the same agony as I did two days ago.
In economics, we learn about market forces moving demand and supply to finally rock back and forth to reach a peaceful equilibrium price and quantity. A simple fact. Not debated, not refuted, not repealed. Wholly accepted. We go to our happiest and soon hit rock bottom but our life rocks back and forth to find an equilibrium point- a point of neutrality. Middle ground. State of rest. Our joy fades, our sorrow fades, and we return as we came, blank.
My momentary elation will escape me, my grief will evaporate.
Grief is to love as death is to life- not opposites, but complements of each other. Yet, grief heals over time and leaves us with love, and as much as it Pains me to write, Love heals over time to leave us with a scar not as crimson as we remember it to be. Next year, we will forget what the pain feels like.
I despise the fact that wounds heal because I can no longer cry over what hurt me seven years ago nor can I even fully celebrate what happened last week. What scares me the most is not life, not death, not love, not heartbreak, but the thought that one day I’ll reach my equilibrium point, My life will have finished its rocking back and forth, numb to any external policies or government action, embracing equilibrium. I am afraid I will have a day where I don’t complain about the weather nor praise it, where I don’t tear up in sadness or in joy, where I don’t sit or stand.
I dread water being completely still.
I fell down two days ago. Today, my bruise is open and screaming. Tomorrow, it will begin to heal.
How can I miss something that hasn’t happened yet?
‘Miss’ points to the past, it’s a signpost towards longing and yearning for a past moment.
We look behind and we miss the people we were. We’re the same colour but today we perhaps wear a different shade or don a fresher texture. We’re painted in hues of our hopes and in tones of our transformations.
How can I miss a part of me I haven’t become?
Just as a snake cannot miss the skin she has yet to shed, and a caterpillar cannot yearn for the free wings of a butterfly she has not yet become, we too struggle with the notion of missing what has not come to pass.
Are we so steeped in the knowledge and fear of transience that we miss the passing of every second?
Are we now shores? That yearn for the rolling waves of the sea that are yet to grace the sand with experience.
A deep ocean lingers at our fingertips, all open, all ready for us. It tells us to wait patiently for the water of memories to rebirth us.
We live in silent sadness, knowing that waves roll back after licking the shore briefly, eventually residing in the mother of memories- time.
We can try to hold this sacrosanct water cupped in our hands, or maybe even douse ourselves in it to capture the chilled and calming relief.
Yet, eventually, water returns to water, marking both the beginning and end of life.
In this cycle, we are allowed to miss the waves yet to come and to miss the feelings that never last; we are allowed to miss our firsts, to miss our lasts, and to miss everything in between.
We are allowed to miss what’s yet to come.
Just as a caterpillar is allowed to miss being a butterfly, she must not evade the experience of transformation in the fear of it passing by.
She shouldn’t miss the journey in trying to miss the reaching of a destination.
We cannot miss the journey in trying to miss the reaching of a destination.
“will love fold or will love fight?” the words echoed and ricocheted- a question was suddenly a thousand doubts all at once. time stared into the distance, she had always warned infatuation of this inevitable arriving tornado, yet here she was wondering if love is secure, safe, and sturdy enough to withstand the rage of the world.
is love all in? she played the first few rounds blind, betting on a bluff and bluffing on a bet, waiting in anticipation for a sign- a green light- a shadow of question across her opponents- a nudge to push her chips into the centre of the solar system- the question stood unafraid. is love all in? or will love swallow her pride, muffle her dreams, discard her so-so hand of cards, and walk out the door of this twisted game?
the scale of stakes lies shaking, never steady. apprehension, inspiration, bliss, frustration, and grief all stare at love as time stretches to fit her hesitation. we will all wait for love, they agreed. we will wait.
love stared at her trembling hands holding a brave hand of cards, toeing the line of risk and stupidity, with a burning heart she whispered a quiet prayer. numb, loud, terrified, sure, to live is to see, to see is to love, to love is to fight.
years later, she smiled. all in knowing love’s gamble was the only game worth playing. you never walk away, you never truly lose.
‘i remembered you like golden daffodils and black coffee with a shot of orange juice, and that you carefully gave me instructions on how exactly to hug you and cup your cheek, you probably thought i’ll forget but it’s the one thing i’ll always know. if you wake me up at 03:27 in the morning and ask me what exactly you’ll be doing at 17:18, i’ll be able to tell you and describe just the way your mouth pulls up into a half-smile when your train is on time and how white lights outline your birthmark like a halo, the whole world rushes to claim you as an angel- an ethereal being. you deserve you deserve you deserve so much so much so much- i try i try i try everyday everyday everyday. are the daffodils golden enough? is the sloppy duckling on your latte the barista called ‘coffee art’ enough to make you smile or do you want your usual orange coffee (because we can get that too)? i love the suspense of asking, i love the unpredictability and the surprising safety of love, i love the comfort and the sarcasm and i love the warmth. you’re not bound by skin, you cannot be captured by ink, your soul is too large to fit the sky. you escape this world. you escape expression. stay with me, i want to bring you daffodils everyday and draw lines in the crevices of your palm and etch your grin in every alley of my heart- i like hugging you and knowing that when we meet, our hearts beat in tandem and complete each other, whispering i missed you. but i’m grateful i remember you.’
I always like to ask people how they would describe a colour to a blind person.
“Green is touching the grass and facing the wind as it messes with your carefully done hair and laughing out loud.” “Yellow is smiling so much your cheeks start hurting. Kissing a daffodil.” “Crimson is being in love, being passionate, being intense.”
What colour do I associate with a particular memory, what particular memory do I associate with a colour?
Earlier today, I had a sip of orange cold brew- orange juice in a coffee cold brew- I felt fresh, rejuvenated, new, excited, intrigued. I felt lavender.
Every time I decide to keep sleeping despite my alarm, it is a moment of navy blue. A zone of comfort, a period of perfection, not yet ruined by the pressure of the workday in front of me.
I went on a canoe out in the grey sea and it began thundering, as did my heart, And I clutched onto the sides of the boat because I was terrified of drowning, And that moment was a dark and oily olive green.
And once, all I remember is running on the sand. Laughing with my friends and playing a vicious game I knew I wanted to win and being out of breath but running nonetheless. Someone jumped on my back and we danced and I laughed even more, and I kept wondering What was the colour of friendship? Of fondness. It was too soft to be violet, too sunny to be marine, too nuanced to be neon pink, too crazy to be grey. I kept searching for a colour, never satisfied.
Months later, I remember hugging my friend and wondering why I was crying in joy- was friendship this deep? I was not afraid, I was not terrified anymore, I was just content. Grateful for a crazy person by my side. And then it hit me- Amber.
If someone told me to describe amber to a blind person, I would tell them that.
To close their eyes and think of a very happy moment in their life, something strong enough to fuel a Patronus, A moment when they felt they were invincible. A memory they shared with their loved ones, their closest friends, a moment they found their home. Think of affection, fondness, friendship. Think of holding a sunbeam in your hand. Slow dancing, not feeling giddy but feeling warm, Amber was a lighthouse- ever steady and hopeful.
Written by Milomi.
Inspired by a quote from the book, ‘Cleopatra and Frankenstein’ by Coco Mellors: “Fondness was warm but not tepid, the colour of amber, more affectionate than friendship but less complicated than love.”
I never miss a night For the skies call out to me And I, like a magnet Am glued to its beauty.
There is this silence For a few moments before shattering Where it’s only me and the stars Confessing, sharing, sympathising, Slowly becoming one.
The skies revolve around me Changing positions, dancing Entertaining and entrancing me As I lose myself in its magic.
Words cannot describe my sudden urge to fly And jump from star to star My head always held high But I always see my place on the field And realise I am bound and that there are boundaries.
I make do with what I can Storing each star in the nooks and crannies of my heart Never wanting to forget these nights by the fields.
i wrote my name in the sands of madagascar. my dad held my hand and helped me trace it in two other languages and i grinned wide. the sea caressed the shore but never reached my name. she was protected from the rolling waves and the salty foam, she was resilient.
and ten years later, when i stand brave at the same shore, my mother’s homeland, i remember resilience. i listen to the songs of the wild, i’ve learned to dance to her melodies and bask in her music. i grin wide again. on the coasts of tamatave, i find myself. and finally, suddenly, altogether, i feel at peace.
2.
on 17th December, i stepped out of the Antananarivo Airport and uttered the same words i did the last time i was there, “i can smell madagascar.” as if it was more tangible than a rare dream, as if i lived there for years on end and was returning finally, as if it was a Marc Jacobs perfume and not a country.
still, i could smell the familiar coal, the nostalgic firewood, the distinct fragrance of mud after rain. the crickets called my name and the wind hugged me in a way i’d forgotten was possible. madagascar was more than just a country, it was a feeling it engulfed me.
3.
tamatave was the same as before. six years and nothing had changed. the supermarkets, the school, the roads, the same sand found its way into every nook and cranny of the town. it stuck to our shoes, it troubled our home, it refused to leave us how much ever we shook it away. “you can try to run away from this sea, this sand, this feeling,” it seemed to say, “but madagascar will never leave you.”
my tall sandcastle stood in front of me, proud and resilient, i wrote my name in the sand again- claiming it was mine: i knew that the moment i walked away, the sea would claim it for its own, and that days later the sand might leave my fingernails, might not dance in my socks,
but for me, always- it would be mine.
4.
early the next morning, i joined an online Zoom meeting, sitting on the same spot where i wrote essays about ‘My Day at the Beach’ as a kid, hoping the african air would channel some creativity-
“you’re in madagascar? where is that?” “oh, it’s in-” “the USA right? i knew it sounded familiar…” “no… it’s a small island south of Africa. it’s beautiful-”
it probably isn’t basic geography to know this but i was taken aback. there are people who don’t know this country, who don’t know about lemurs and eternal greenery and roads so bumpy you can’t feel yourself, who are oblivious to this beautiful beautiful feeling.
oblivious to this beautiful beautiful feeling.
5.
a few days later, we found ourselves on a lovely beach in foulepoint. a point of hope, full of goodness.
light glistened off the waves, emerald leaves brushed my face, the salty air tasted of sweet serenity. the water was mesmerising- the more you stare at it, the more real it seems to become, the more faint life is, the more prominent nature is.
the ocean lapping at my toes tells me that it will wash away my worries. i will be reborn, it promises me, in its hallowed element, that i will be safe.
6.
just as we were ten years ago, the evening found us sitting uncomfortably in a canoe, heading out to the grey sea to look for corals and interesting things the boatman can find. he tucks the faded ariary note and we are off to the grey sea before we finish saying our prayers.
he rows and we ride, grateful that we reside in a lagoon where we are sheltered from the roaring waves of the indian ocean but not as grateful to not be fearful.
with every few meters we went forward, we bit our lips a little harder, clutched the sides of the canoe tighter lest we topple off- praying the lightning doesn’t reach us because we’re so close we can almost touch it.
the boatman carries on- such is the spirit of madagascar, unstirred by anomalies, one with nature- he seems determined to show us the wonders of the sea while the relentless rain pelts us and leaves us defenceless. till we reach the shore which seems to be miles away, we accept that we are one with water. we remember the coast’s promise that it will always remain ours.
7.
the days go by and it’s unsettling when you stay in a country that speaks a language you can barely comprehend. all i know to understand is the language of the trees, of the wind, of the sea, conjugations and foreign words are beyond me. important discussions take place and i sit with my legs stretched out- ready to escape. language can wait, nature cannot.
“je ne parle pas français,” i can hear the sea laughing at me but the sand agreeing with me because some experiences transcend words. some feelings elude the need for language.
8.
and soon enough, the time has come for us to leave, with no clear idea of when we will return just as it was six years ago. we leave with heavy hearts, knowing that somewhere we belong to the coasts of madagascar, that when we close our eyes we will still remember the sound of the sea, it will never really leave us. this feeling, will never really leave us.
and later, when our flight takes off and i see the magic of the country i know that it is a secret i’ll carry with myself. it is a whole new world, impossible to share, to fully express in words. it is a feeling after all.
i close my eyes and i hear whispers of a beautiful story, it speaks to my heart, and i know it is that resilient voice of madagascar, that beautiful beautiful feeling.
Milomi's world 