‘I don’t like to write, but I love to have written.’
This concept of time weighs on this writer’s mind. It always has done. Days when the sun finally shines, and the heat of the world descends like approximations of memories . . . arrive with quietness. These are days we should write, because sitting in the sun washes us through. I think: if I write of one particular you, I write of you and you and you. We’re all shot through with who made us.
So the sun comes and I find I’m sat and looking out on the world: the way the day drifts, the irregularities of ants, you. I write this to an unnamed love, but you could be any love of any of us. I want to find every angle of you, but you often just wait out of reach.
What is it we have a need to do when we have to put down the words of the stories that made us? Is this re-creation, or is this a purging, or a construction of who we are? I sit and I consider the day and wait for you to come. Perhaps I’ll be here for the afternoon, and you’ll stay in the clouds. I have a notebook, which I shall use as a net, just in case.
When you do come, you do it like you’re the long-lost sun itself. I don’t hear your footsteps. You have bare feet on the paving slabs and, when I look up, I find I’m squinting and the recollected you smiles at me. You’re backlit, as a memory is, and I can hardly see your features. You make soft shushing noises, take up your long light skirt to your knees, kneel down on your haunches, and fold the fabric at your thighs. You tap the page; I see your eyes and lips, and so I write.
I do like to write you. Others might find it a task as laborious as sawing logs or digging out the weeds. I like to write you because you’re at my knees, shushing, watching the way the words fall onto the page with studied concentration. When the last line of you is written, for now and this time, I feel a little loss: you press your finger to your lips and place it over my mouth. The day takes you back to the clouds.
I do like to have written, days like these when the sun finally shines. This re-creation, purging, construction process has helped the settling of the mind. This concept of time weighs on this writer’s mind. It always has done.