8

Sometimes I miss him still. Nostalgia welling up inside me at the taste of spiced coconut milk soup, a sudden bend at a certain street, buying clothes. Moving on: is that really such a good thing? Can we not move on without leaving things behind? I imagine memory as an infinite stretch of sand beach. If you turn back you can see your own footprints. The farther away they are, the less recognisable. And here and there, peeping from and half obscured by the fluid sand are the paraphernelia of your past life: the legache resulting from a walk with someone looking at bungalows, the chewed edges of paper cups, birthday cards...