I Used To Know You

There’s something about the way she smiles that takes me back to the days when I held her hand as we walked along jasmine scented streets to go by the river and sit atop rocks, skimming smooth rounded pebbles on the still water. The way she used to find the best puddles to jump into when we went for walks, the way I used to pull out the ribbon she used to tie her hair with and run across the field, the way she would chase me, with tears flowing down her cheeks the first few times and bubbling with laughter as we grew older, running as fast as her legs could carry her.

She looks tired now. I could touch the crows’ feet around her eyes if I just reached out, but I didn’t. Each time I felt like tracing the lines of her face with my fingertips I gripped my teacup so tight that I thought it would break. Her eyes were still bright; dark, sparkling orbs just as I remembered them. A long time ago they would shine the brightest when she spoke of the places she wanted to go to. I remembered the little girl who’d draw Eiffel Towers and the Great Pyramids in the sand when we went out to the beach. I found that little girl in the souvenirs she had collected from the places she had been to – all the places she used to dream of and more – scattered all around the living room. They weren’t arranged in any particular order, her favourites were nearby, easily accessible and more visible, on the coffee table and by the television. The ones she didn’t like as much were up on shelves, hidden behind heavy books, paintings and mirrors.

She speaks of the people she met, of the boy she met in Rome, the one she fell in love with and married ten years ago, of the children – two girls – that they named after music, art and beauty. She spoke of the disease that took him away from them, of his last days when she spent every minute by his side, of his whispered last words. She spoke of the last five years, just her and her girls, outcasts from her family just because they liked to dream. She is doing fine she says, and I believe her. She talks about her children, they’re at school right now, she says, I’ve told them all about you, they’re really excited to meet you.

I tell her about my failed marriage, of the girl I married who left as soon as a high school sweetheart returned, about my son, who I raised on my own the last six years, he’s nine now, I tell her, a year younger than your elder daughter. She asked if his eyes were blue like mine and I shook my head, no they weren’t.

She reached over to take the empty cup of tea from my hands and I stayed mesmerized by the way she moved. She still had the fluidity of youth in every movement, I had greyed, and my joints ached. She tried to coax the cup out of my grip, it took a few seconds for me to realize and I let go. She looked at me questioningly but didn’t say anything, instead she got up and walked to the kitchen while making fun of herself for having learnt the social niceties she so despised as a child. I found that I was unable to stop myself from following her; evidently I couldn’t stand not to see her, not after meeting her for the first time in eighteen years. I stopped by the doorframe and watched her open the oven and take out a freshly baked almond cake. She laughed at my surprise and handed me the knife while she poured us some more sweet tea from the kettle. We dragged tall stools up to the kitchen table and sat down, I ate furiously for the first few minutes, expressing my admiration at her culinary skills, she laughed and showed me an empty box of cake mix.

Then we sat there, looking at our plates, toying with the remnants of cake, not saying anything at all. It reminded me of the times we spent at my place after school and I knew that nothing I said could express the plethora of emotions I was feeling right now. I wasn’t sure what it was that I felt, was it love or regret or just plain old nostalgia?

I stayed to see her kids come home from school. Her younger daughter took an immediate liking to me, refusing to get off my lap until she had finished her cake and told us all about the kitty she say on her way back from school. Her elder daughter kept her distance initially, watching me until she decided I was alright and then she came and sat next to me. She looked exactly like her mother did at that age, I told her that and she looked very proud when she said that she had been told.

When I finally got back to my car it was another hour later. The four hours I had spent with her felt like I had spent no time with her at all; too many things had been left unsaid. I needed to pick my son up from school, go grocery shopping, go home and make dinner. She packed some almond cake for my son. Her younger daughter stayed glued to me and refused to let go until I promised to bring my son with me the next time I visited. Once I did though, she jumped off and skipped away happily.

She knocked on my window as I was putting on my seatbelt. I hadn’t realized that she had followed me out, like I had followed her into the kitchen earlier in the evening. I rolled down my window, she smiled at me, I smiled back at her. She said that it felt good to see me. I didn’t say anything to that. What could I have said? That I missed her, her eyes, her smile, her laughter and her dreams? That listening to her talk made me think of the times when we sat under trees and spoke of the world, when she held my hand under a moonlit sky and told me she loved me, when we kissed for the first time the day we graduated from high school.

She saw my confusion, I think. Or maybe she didn’t. She leaned in and kissed me on my forehead. Don’t go away again, she said. I nodded. There wasn’t anything else to be said. I watched her retreat into her world through the rear view mirror as I returned to mine.