rohsun
Closure
I stood by the door, watching the decoration lights run across the street as they danced from red to yellow to blue. The snow fell so lightly that the street seemed to have been sprinkled with salt. Store bells tinkled, and the children laughed along with the jolly red giant. A breeze wafted past me, making me cold. I return to my desk and barely get started writing that I hear the bell tinkle.
“Excuse me… but are you still open?” It was a lady, dressed in black with a scarf around the neck. Her cheeks were the color of a rose as strands of flaxen ran along the contours of her face like first chains of gold over a meadow. Instantly, she brought back memories of a spring I had long forgotten. My hand fiddled with the ring on my hand.
“Yes, we are,” I said, watching her brush away the winter from her hair.
“Wonderful! I badly needed a diary.” The lilt in her voice was like an old friend. I smiled. Many mistook the absence of decoration as a sign of closure.
“We’re open,” I said, sweeping my arms around the room. She walked towards the desk.
“I’m glad!”
“I’ve some diaries over here,” I said, pointing at the pile on my desk. She picked one and flipped through it. Suddenly, she stopped and stared at a page.
‘I’d like a new one.”
“It is new.”
“No, it isn’t. Look at this.” She showed me the page and I looked at the scrawl over her finger: ‘This book belongs to you’
‘I wrote that,” I said, smiling.
“Well, I’d like a book which hasn’t been written into.”
“But all the diaries here have that on a page.”
“All of them?” I picked up another diary from my pile and showed it to her. She stared at the scrawl and her brow rose like a wave.
‘I want one without this.”
“I’ve some but before I give it to you, I’d have to write this.”
“But I don’t want this to be there.”
“Let me explain. I get many diaries and not all of them are bought. Now, diaries want to be written into because otherwise they would be, but, without purpose. So, I write this line in every diary I get. And in a way, it’s true because this book would belong to you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Some keep diaries but never write into them. A diary would feel wanted only if an impression is left on it. Words are a diary’s companion and no one would want spend eternity in loneliness.”
She picked up another diary, her fingers running over the words on the page. She muttered, put it down, turned around and walked away. The yellow, tucked in behind the scarf, still carried the winter.
I smiled and picked up another diary.
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I stood by the door, watching the decoration lights run across the street as they danced from red to yellow to blue. The snow fell so lightly that the street seemed to have been sprinkled with salt. Store bells tinkled, and the children laughed along with the jolly red giant. A breeze wafted past me, making me cold. I return to my desk and barely get started writing that I hear the bell tinkle.
“Excuse me… but are you still open?” It was a lady, dressed in black with a scarf around the neck. Her cheeks were the color of a rose as strands of flaxen ran along the contours of her face like first chains of gold over a meadow. Instantly, she brought back memories of a spring I had long forgotten. My hand fiddled with the ring on my hand.
“Yes, we are,” I said, watching her brush away the winter from her hair.
“Wonderful! I badly needed a diary.” The lilt in her voice was like an old friend. I smiled. Many mistook the absence of decoration as a sign of closure.
“We’re open,” I said, sweeping my arms around the room. She walked towards the desk.
“I’m glad!”
“I’ve some diaries over here,” I said, pointing at the pile on my desk. She picked one and flipped through it. Suddenly, she stopped and stared at a page.
‘I’d like a new one.”
“It is new.”
“No, it isn’t. Look at this.” She showed me the page and I looked at the scrawl over her finger: ‘This book belongs to you’
‘I wrote that,” I said, smiling.
“Well, I’d like a book which hasn’t been written into.”
“But all the diaries here have that on a page.”
“All of them?” I picked up another diary from my pile and showed it to her. She stared at the scrawl and her brow rose like a wave.
‘I want one without this.”
“I’ve some but before I give it to you, I’d have to write this.”
“But I don’t want this to be there.”
“Let me explain. I get many diaries and not all of them are bought. Now, diaries want to be written into because otherwise they would be, but, without purpose. So, I write this line in every diary I get. And in a way, it’s true because this book would belong to you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Some keep diaries but never write into them. A diary would feel wanted only if an impression is left on it. Words are a diary’s companion and no one would want spend eternity in loneliness.”
She picked up another diary, her fingers running over the words on the page. She muttered, put it down, turned around and walked away. The yellow, tucked in behind the scarf, still carried the winter.
I smiled and picked up another diary.
Poll Rate this entry