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The Precious Word: Alive
A Page From The Year 2021
30th June 2021 — The last day of June, but it won’t ever be the same again. I’m exhausted by the sadness that surrounds me, but the colors of the sky still carry hope. At the end of the day, I hold a stamp in my hand, ready to be sent out somewhere. I know it won’t change anything, but still, I try. I pull out a blank page and scribble sweet nothings. To write about endings, I must first write about new beginnings. This note is for June — a month that wasn’t mine, yet I held it like those forget-me-nots that quietly wither. In my own silent way, I embraced June.
1st July 2021 — The first day of the month feels like a new beginning. I see celebrations for Doctor’s Day on social media and in the newspaper, but the doctors are gone — vanished, as if it’s normal for a doctor to die that way. Celebration has become just a word for me now. I don’t see myself in it because, for us, each simple moment is precious. Suddenly, there’s no desire to celebrate; we’re too afraid to be alive. To be alive has become a poem that I’m happy to scribble every day. I’m doing the same now. My son told me he’s starting to forget things — Is he aging? I didn’t say anything to him because we’re all stuck in the same poem of 2021. We’re all waiting for the vent to breathe again.
