memory
a journal entry
Tuesday April 9th, 20204
I made a salad fit for spring — spinach intertwined with arugula, harmonized with shredded chicken, a diced mandarin orange, sprinkled atop with pumpkin seeds.
The wind was eager to test my limits as I cycled against its current — I always surprise myself in moments as these, as to how much hinderance I can truly endure.
Much needed rest was needed alongside the pond nearby.
There were a few old men, young at heart, racing their mini electric boats throughout the lively waters — it reminded me of Paris, it reminded me of the Tuileries Garden…it reminded me of him.
I’d lost myself in a daze, peering at a similar race before me as such a few summers ago within such romantic chaos of a city.
He was in Paris the same time as I.
I remember the last time I saw him, in Copenhagen, I’d asked him if he’d see me while we were both daydreaming along the streets of Paris; he said he couldn’t find the time, and I knew then, we were nothing more beyond that moment — I cried the next day.
Pen in hand, journal in lap, I watched the boats, eager around the pond.
Surrounded by countless flower and marble statue, he was the only person I wanted to see — not much has changed since then.
I took a moment away from the beauty before me, peering at a plane soaring by above; I had to convince myself that he was on that plane, off to a new adventure, perhaps home, in hopes of easing my hurt of countless unanswered texts, and a desolate voice message.
I looked back towards the pond and blinked; the flowers turned cactus, and the marble turned rock, and I was back home, over a year later amidst a familiar, indefinite silence.
