life in fragments

The other day, my sister and I stopped by our neighbors’ house, chatting with the people who watched us grow. There’s a makeshift bench in their yard, with a beautiful view over the greenery around our neighborhood. We sat on that bench. Next to it was an old sink where our neighbor’s mother used to wash her long, white hair. She would take down her headscarf, and put her hair out of the bun, and lean over the sink. I remember my sister and I marveled at her hair, thinking we were witnessing a sacred moment, like we were the chosen ones.

The flower bed was still there. The same plants were still in those same pots, next to the narrow stone stairs leading to their garden.

The old odrna, wine bower, was still over us, bearing fruit. The grapes are still as sweet as I remember.

We stopped for that brief moment to look at the album of our fondest memories. Everything is exactly like it was back then. That house still holds the same charm and warmth as it did all those years back, when we were all much younger than we are now.

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When I’m alone and in my room, I only have my thoughts to observe. It’s an introspective state, and I try to find meaning in everything. Everything exists on a higher plane, and everything needs to be subordinated to that. Outside my conscience, I only have those four walls and my present body, which I’m barely aware of.

When I step outside and into the lovely October sun, I get out of my head, too. It’s mundane, but it makes me feel alive. There’s a vast world around me demanding my immediate attention.

I did some exercises for my minor hip injury. My muscles were sore. I feel alive because it hurts. I am aware of this world, this body I inhabit, and the sun is too bright to let me lose myself in the daydream that replaces the real fragments of my life with the abstract.

Those neighbors have kids of their own, and they have kids of their own now. From having them watch over us when we were kids, I went to watching over theirs. The twins. Those two little sunshines don’t allow anyone to run ahead and leave something for later. Everything is just a present moment.

They love spending time over at our house. The tortoise? Love them, although the concept of not being able to play with them seems a bit foreign to them for now. (They’re five.)

– They are tiny animals, not toys, so we should be gentle.
– Yes, like we already talked about.
– Great!
Skip to a few moments later.
– What did I say about being gentle?
– You said it sixteen times already!
– And how many times did you not listen to me?
A coy smile. – A hundred million.

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I feel the most alive when I’m not distracted by the life I want to live. When I can place myself in the life I am living. Spending time with my little neighbors lets me see the world through their eyes. It reminds me of how it is to see it with pure wonder for a bee that’s just a bee, and a fig that’s just a fig – sweet and sticking to our hands, so we laugh about it.

I feel the most alive when I can make coffee for my loved ones and drink with them. Seeing how life has traveled, but some things stayed the same. Where I don’t have to reminisce on the routines we were used to, or the little everyday habits, or the odrna we played hide-and-seek under, because they are still there today. Little things time didn’t change, but kept as a thread up until now.

I feel alive when my mom comes into my room and finds a piece of clothing she likes and I no longer fit into, so we share, like friends. Not mother and daughter, but two girls giddy about a successful exchange. Later, I would go into her closet to steal a sweater.

I feel alive, and it’s not always a good feeling. I burned my finger making cinnamon rolls.

I do feel alive. I let the weight of this and that hold me back and restrain me, but then life gives me these fragments that anchor me, so I can secure my footing. So I know where I stand.

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