Author: Soramimi Hanarejima
When you open the door, it’s like I’m looking at an old photo, you and the hallway tinged a sentimental amber by the redshift of the decades between us.
“Do you want to come in?” you ask, voice muffled by all those years. “I just got some lasagna out of the oven.”
The invitation surprises me. You haven’t asked me in since you cocooned yourself in what you call “the good old days.”
“Sure,” I answer, pretty hungry after getting your supplies for the month—mostly food and books, as usual.
Then, we’re in the same present moment, bring bags of groceries into the kitchen where the air is thick with tomato sauce and basil. Outside the window above the sink it’s a sunny day, clear sky over the lively streets of the city in its heyday. The lot of food carts is abustle with shift workers and college students getting cheap eats while kids play hopscotch and four square in the adjoining parklet.
“I still wish I could go out there without altering the timeline,” you say. “But just seeing it is plenty.”
“Isn’t it weird knowing things aren’t like this any more?” I ask.
“No stranger than being absorbed in a movie. Even when you know the ending.”
Movies don’t go on indefinitely, I want to say. And no one eats all their meals in a movie theater. But I just nod so we won’t end up in some heated rehashing about escapism.
“You look tired,” you say. “Why don’t you stay and rest? I can realign the passageway so when you leave it’ll be like you were only here 5 minutes.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think staying in the past will help much. And I have other ways of taking a break.”
“Make sure you use them.”
“I will. I am.”
You hand me 2 plates, then use a spatula to cut squares out of the lasagna sitting on the stovetop.
At the table in the alcove, we eat as though adhering to a vow of silence. Only faint music from the radio in the living room keeps complete silence at bay, the sound so soft it barely gets my attention.
Until the familiar guitar chords of a folksy song stir the air. They’re of course followed by wistful lyrics about a memory fairy crystallizing past experiences into gems of personal history, fully accepting that her most beautiful work will be undone by a forgetting fairy. This musical tale was already old when we were growing up and is now doubly nostalgic, making me long for childhood and a seemingly simpler time before that.
When the song ends, tears are sliding down my face. You hand me a napkin, and I blot them away with it. You say nothing, leaving space for the feelings welling up in me.
And now I have to say, “We’ve lost so much and will only lose more, and I have to face all that without you.”
“I know,” you say quietly. “But at least you’re facing it. I can’t manage that.”
“And you were always the reckless one.”
“It’s easy to be reckless in a safe world. That’s one reason I’m here. To hang on to whatever vigor is left in me. Or the illusion of it.”
It’s unlike you to be so forthcoming about your feelings, and instantly it’s clear that this is why I’m here—so we can reveal our truths to each other and let them find resonance in this space.
I take a deep breath and wait for you to go on. If you don’t, I will.