Place

The place was drenched in memory, warped from whatever form it may have held years ago, now, a vestibule of echoes, opening onto an all but quiet cathedral filled with the faintest trace of those who once gave voice and presence to this place with the unknown offerings of their love, laughter, and tears. Here, everything is mist, dissipating, giving way, to something other and new, and in the wake of this almost imperceptible erasure: a reticence, the refusal of a room, the withholding of a spot, the inability of a point in space and time to give up its essence from those who once made this place their own, whether for a moment or a lifetime. Some hidden residue remains, everywhere, an invisible tableau, detectable to those whose aura is infused in an area from when they walked this land with their own two feet, breathed this air with their own lungs, and savored albeit briefly of the pain and pleasure of life together. Places richly inhabited once, and later reencountered, are a well of reminiscence, a waterway to a different dimension, one we cannot help but travel as we smile and mourn for what once was. Remembering the subtle scent of a beloved, a conversation, the savory taste of a special dish, or another’s tender touch can be a wellspring of consolations and catharsis. Our lives are a collection of moments, happening in a place, altogether evanescent. If we are fortunate, some of these moments are precious, and become memories, a pooling of presence taking up residence within us, to buoy us on our journey to another place.