Melancholia

It’s the hour of passing through the needle’s eye: “I am here” becoming “I was there”. Like smoke time dissipates into memory. We built good memories. Did you see me? I wonder. Laughter and giggles resounded from the tree tops on our last walk together. Did you hear it too?

Already I miss your presence. The longing feels hard against the glass and steel of the departure lounge. But there is a seed growing between us already developing wings, our relation redefined. What will we take with us into this new circle? Which moments will stick to our lives and which stories will we tell the new generations about our past?

I was the older brother, always one step ahead in the game. Now that we are equals what can I bring into the circle? You were always my confidence, like a bulwark you shielded me from the most terrible waves. Now I feel the ground slipping, my plains have been flooded and the forests are drowning.

Through the needle’s eye this landscape looks still, slipping out of my heart into the scrapbook I’ve collected for us. The wet earth pulls me in, yet I rise through the air. If you ever look back I hope you will see me standing on the shore, like a mouldering lighthouse from an ancient past, shining a light on the darkening land.