Some people asked me if I will keep writing letter to you. Of course I will. Because writing is the only way to keep someone from disappearing. Because contrary to popular belief; love won’t do. Love never stops things from flying away.
Aren’t we all traders? Each day, we trade a piece of our existing selves with what becomes memories. We trade, piece by piece, a home built by our family and childhood friends and little monsters on the backyard. A home built of fairy tales and laughter, hugs and prayers, day trips to the beach and zoo. My home; by my Ayah and Bunda and hours of commuting to the capital by bus. Yours; by us and the untold stories and letters that are never finished, never sent.
As we grow, our hearts go into tiny pieces by wanderlust, by books we keep rereading, by dreams we were taught. As we grow, we go. Often when we go too far for too long, we take too many memories with us. We capture La Giralda, it replaces our first sand castle helped by a favorite aunt. We stroll around London, and miss our fathers’ hometown less and less. We fall in love with strangers and out of love with another. We trade and trade and leave so little of what defines home.
Most of the time we just lose that little piece on our way home; we trade it on the airport or with the smell of the sea and its infinite possibility. We get all the boarding gates and seafloor we want, but no more home.
As we grow, we trade.
Sometimes, late in the afternoon while you took a nap and I was too tired to prepare the dinner, I sat still and questioned myself, “Did I trade too much when I was young?”
When the night came, he was beside me, sleeping already. I watched him snoring gently with his eyes closed and face tired. I watched him closely and all of his imperfect details completing mine. I thought about love and just like that, I fell asleep in love.
How could the universe handle all the love and hatred of us, human beings, Maera? I kept wondering in my dream, holding him with my flawed little hands.