Pixelated Memories

I saw you on a day when the weather was unpredictable. There was a sudden drop in temperature when I started my journey, and by the time I entered the outskirts of your city, it started drizzling. Through the blurred window glass panes of my car, I laid my eyes on you and was instantly reminded of the home of my childhood – across the ocean, thousand of miles away. The silent unperturbed lanes, flanked by a growth of lime green trees looked enchanting. Impossibly perfect for a broken beautiful world like ours.

You stood there, proud and defiant. Delicate too. I, on the other hand, felt like living in a chapter from a fairy tale. Surreal.

The silence of the valley followed me all the way back. I was happy, and yet like always, I felt a strange melancholy in the stillness of your wilderness.

My next visit didn’t happen until four weeks later. I was excited, I wanted to have another closer look at you.

But you weren’t there. Gone. Just like that.

The roadside was barren, bereft of any sign of your existence. All those passerby, walking nonchalantly, now will never know that you once adorned the lanes, in resplendent colors.

And I don’t know why, I felt sad, deep in my heart – which now was only left with ‘pixelated’ memories.

Photo courtesy – my husband