Dear You
Do you remember that time when we chased butterflies in the public garden that most people frequented. Carelessly running around and trying to chase the butterflies that were too far out of our reach but that didn’t stop us from chasing them while on-going people glared at us and that too with curiosity. I felt genuine joy just being able to chase butterflies with you and most importantly being able to spend time with you. I remember that very emotion you wore on your face when the butterflies we were chasing disappeared into the vast blue sky. You were disappointed I could see, but you’re disappointment soon faded when our mothers brought us pistachio-flavored ice-cream. Under the hot summer day, we enjoyed our ice-cream; forgetting that we tirelessly chased butterflies earlier. The sweet taste of the pistachio dipped ice-cream still remains in my mouth.
As a women now, walking in the public garden isn’t as fun as it was with you when we were five. I realized that the butterflies we once chased had migrated leaving us only sweet-nostalgic memories. Your laughter, smile and the way you talked remain constant and vivid as if all of this had occurred yesterday. The days–joyful, welcoming or aloof. They start and end with you. My cousin is five the age we were when we chased the butterflies. She reminds me of you. The only difference is that she doesn’t chase butterflies or feel joyous when pistachio-flavored ice-cream is offered to her.
I do miss you a lot especially on-warm summer days, and the days where I see little children chasing their friends innocently. The giddy-bubbly five year old you whose life was cut-short instilled a vague memory on to me; the words you spoke, when I told you that the butterflies wouldn’t appear anymore, you said “It’s okay, the butterflies will gather around the poppy flowers, soon. We will just have to wait.”
So I waited, impatiently. Hoping with the butterflies you too would appear before me. But, I know fairy-tales and magic do not exist. Some-days whenever a ray of light hits the window-curtains, I see a image of you. A five-year old bubbly girl with amalgamation of emotions, the one who taught me that life is meant to be lived in the present and that worrying too much about the future can only overwhelm us.
I Miss You. Often. Almost Everyday.
