REMEMBER
November 1 — Remember
The graveyard gate reminded me of the garden. Our garden. The one we met in. The one you kept and tended. The one with the hollyhock and peony. But this gate smells of rust and rain. It leaves a residue on my hands. I wipe the dirt on my trousers, wondering what you’ll think when I come back home to our garden.
If I could only remember the way back.
I can’t so I march through the cemetery. The headstones are like the Lego bricks that used to litter our sitting room. I can almost feel the sharp pain that would shoot through my heel every time I attempted to make my way to the piano. I don’t remember where the Lego went. I don’t remember whose they were.
I remember the piano though. The rote memory in my fingers makes them twitch. Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words was, is, my favorite. I crave that music in my hands, in my bones.
Is that why I came here?
Сайхан Бичээрэй!
H