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richasmukherjee.com

love, laughter, pain, joy, life and its lessons, one word at a time

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Memories

An heirloom

 

I owe you so much little one
I’ve tried to repay this debt in tears, patience, lessons, hugs and kisses
But there is so much more I want to show you before this world implodes and consumes itself
A million crimson sunsets, where you can just hear that slight thud when the horizon gets greedy and gobbles up the fiery spheres
Beautiful rivers that carry hopes and goods and people, up and down, like the tides of life
Mute verdure mountains awash with the beauty of simplicity
Kind people who help everyone in their paths like gentle streams rearranging pebbles along their way
Gestures that are laden with hope and happiness, not reciprocity
Long drives taking us to new places, new people, new experiences and sometimes to nowhere
This basket that I’m weaving for you is full of small, simple, happy things
I’ll cover them all with a blanket of hope as I pass them on to you
I know you will look back and wonder what there is left to love in a world packed to the brim with hate, violence, blood and sorrow
But that is when I want you to sit with this little basket and see the wondrous world that was, and still could be, through my eyes

In between the lines.

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I would have never even known it was there.
If the waterfall of cascading books in the attic had not revealed all.
It sat in all it’s past glory, full of secrets, yet so humble.
Brown, it’s spine bent, in a cloud of dust, a diary with a yielding lock
I unlocked a life.
I unlocked memories.
I unlocked more than even it’s lock thought it knew.
Dog eared pages folded away the remainders of busy days when there were so many other important things to do.
Brown, crumpled pages, that were mangled in the rush of life.
Amoeba shaped stains that were born while lip smacking recipes were being discovered.
That musty smell that wraps up memories in a warm blanket of reminiscings.
Different coloured inks dipped in myriad emotions of the author.
Scribbles, doodles that dotted many corners full of mental meanderings.
Daily accounts of pockets full and then emptied mercilessly, telling tales of sometimes a king and sometimes a pauper.
How can a bunch of pages be so vocal in the most utter silence?
How can they write the beginning an end of someone’s story, an entire life?
Who are you? Will I meet you some day around the corner of a street?
We might be strangers but I know you so well.
I walked 200 pages of your life, not a soul will I tell.

Feelings in transit

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I get the distinct feeling that I am forever pining.
It makes me weary, melancholy,but it is often a sweet pain.
Sometimes it creeps up on me at a coffee shop.
Swirling along with the steam from my mug, flashes of another one shared with someone a long time ago.
It follows me down a familiar street, where our carefree spirits roamed.
Our laughter, ennui and immaturity bringing a knowing smile of rememberance.
It seeps out through a familiar handwriting.
Bringing with it black and white peppered pictures of a faceless someone who made reading something somewhere very special.
An old tattered place that was home, grips my heart with familiarity and joy.
The halls echoing with muted shrieks of laughter and admonishment from loved ones,my heart echoing the deafening silence in the absence of those voices.
A rough old weathered hand makes me think of someone who made me, I want to hold on, never let go.
There is happiness all around, fireworks in the sky. Then why is it that there is a corridor in my heart always trapped in the memories of years gone by.

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