MEMORY IS OBSOLETE – Stina LončarevićIvana
It’s the picture of you pinned to the wall – our wall – that is now waving slightly in the warm afternoon wind coming through the window. It’s July. Heat pools up in the corners and drips into the seams, turning into sweat on the forehead. I lay sprawled on the bed, a glass of lemonade sits on the table. There are three pieces of ice inside but I don’t hear them cackling at me because of the phone ringing.
The heat seems to suddenly stop pooling, because in a fragment I’ve turned cold. The words that come at me spread through my mind like a wildfire, slowly albeit racing. Suddenly we find ourselves on the old road again, which lays at the countryside by the wheat fields, the one with missing pieces of concrete in places and where the battered down cars whose paint had worn off drive. And every so often old farmer Mika would pass carrying his hay. It is warm, the wind is playing in our hair and we are running with only seemingly endless and peaceful miles in sight.
In a motion we are laying in the midst of the fields. I remember you looking over at me with that smile, sly in thinking I hadn’t noticed. Would you still think that now? Suddenly the ground shakes, opening into some kind of endless, cimmerian abyss and I’m falling, falling. Your face scratches off much like the old car paint and it becomes my final view before the darkness eats me up.
The room is cerulean and cold. No trace of the former heat remains anymore. Cold. I’m laying on the floor, pooling in the corners are now tears. I can only hear the ice cackling in the distance, or maybe just the wind chime. The open doors reveal the summer of the day, the wind comes in slowly and it tells me quietly that your rope was made out of wheat stalks.
Author: Stina Lončarević