Nostalgia by Abeer Al-Juaithen

Posted on April 7, 2011 by


He slowly dragged himself out of bed and walked to the kitchen. He grabbed his morning coffee then headed to the mail box. It’s that time; the 23rd. His fingers numb and his heart throbbing, he flips through the envelopes and anxiously, nervously, and carelessly he drops a few. Then he gets to it, he finally does. A post card. This time, its from India.

He takes a step back and a deep breath and helplessly surrenders to the much too familiar wave of pain attacking him, her picture, with her hair tied back.
It helps him see her face clearer, and she is leaning; leaning towards him.
He holds on to the post card with a firm grip, and slowly walks back to his large, empty house. The envelopes still lying on the floor.

“I just don’t understand it, that’s all.” She coldly replies.

“What on Earth do you not understand, woman?”

“How you could like his writings? I mean, they are at best nothing but condescending thoughts from a much too proud and ignorant man.”

It was unbelievably rare to find a relationship like theirs; built primarily on endless arguments and the inevitable inseparability.

“How is it proud or ignorant to tell the truth?”

“What truth, you butt whip?”

“Why the name calling?! Is it because you can’t come up with a decent answer?”

He rapped his arm around her and they walked together as they did everyday. It was simply inexplicable how he was drawn to her or how she was drawn to him. But there was something in their presence, some sort of comfort, some sort of belonging, as cliché as it may sound. They were home to each other, barely 20 but they knew, that this is as much of home as they could ever find.

He held in his breath, and held back all he could possibly hold; held back the now pointless flames that grow larger as he gets closer to his seat.

Burning within, he coldly sits.

He flips the post card.

Dear …….
India is nothing like I imaged. But there’s so much intelligence, so much soul, so much life in these people.
Jack and I went meditating, and no matter what you say, I still think it’s pure crap. What the hell am I supposed to get out of sitting on my ass in a very uncomfortable position for 40 minutes?
We went to the Taj Mahal. It was so beautiful. I couldn’t stop thinking of you; how you really wanted to see it, how you wanted us to see it.
Take care ….
Love …..

It was October 4th, 10 years later when they met again. She saw him, and he saw her. They both didn’t want to see each other, and they both desperately wanted to. In the stream of loneliness that was their lives, it emerged again; home.

She turned to him. He’d grown old and weary, a burden on her. He smiled to her, and spread his arm towards her.

She came closer, and gently but hesitantly handed him hers. And they softly swayed, swayed to the music behind them.

Both drowning in fear, both dangerously too close to each other’s hearts.

This man silently seated with the post card in his hand is but a shell.
If you were to ask him about how his life changed after he met her, he would say:

“It’s in a cup. All my dreams are trapped within a cup; warm, safe, sound and unrevealed within a cup.

And she walks into my life (passes it to be more accurate), passes by the cafe that I usually sit at, and I catch her glimpse , and I inappropriately stare, at her yellow skirt, slit from the sides.

Oh, my pride…

Home is a post card away.”

Posted in: Nostalgia