By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo

 

THE days are shorter, I believe, with each day ending without finishing as much task as before. Perhaps it’s the heat, perhaps it’s the burgeoning traffic, the sea of humans on the street, or maybe it’s my body’s declining capacity to cope with the usual things I used to do. Or, all of the above.

For years, I could recount details of events, remember faces with it their names, taste the fruits in my mouth, without them touching my tongue. It is difficult to do that now, with the taste of pollution in the air intruding on the imagination and the discomfort of traveling. Destinations I used to reach within an hour take twice as much with the unabated stream of vehicles that plague the streets at peak hours.

Ironic when most everything can be done online, speaking to a machine. But the machines, unlike humans, could not be asked specific questions or requested to resolve certain issues quickly, necessitating personal visits to explain the particularity of an experience.

Another thing which has become more challenging is the regular visit to friends who are unable to move around on their own, given the fact of their deteriorating reflexes, and the distance which takes twice as much to engage. I spend more time on the road than the time I spent with them, and then, it’s time to go back home. The heat, too, strikes mercilessly, penetrating beyond the epidermis.

And then, there are things that I forget, like turning on the mobile phone which I turned off as I work in the garden, and rushing to go to appointments immediately after, unable to hear calls. I make a mental note to turn it on, but sometimes, I truly forget. That is no longer the result of climate change and global warming, but lack of gotu kola! Studies have shown that gotu kola (Centella asiatica) improves memory. I could plant again, after the African snails devoured the ones I was ready to harvest.

So the days are not the only ones getting shorter, my memory too seems shorter, and I have very little control in its auto-delete. I worry that I forget the things I should not, even if a friend has reassured me that the brain retains at least those memories crucial for one’s survival. Survival is not quite the same as creative living. Survival mode robs you of the thrill, the joys, the dangers and the risks, which gives color and texture to life.

 

Do I know you from somewhere?

He smiles, like he knew me
Does he know me?
He touches my hands, gently
pressing my palms, with petals
slowly, he takes my hands to my nose
I smell a familiar scent, jasmines?
something that reminds me, of a poem
in the woods, weaving itself among pine trees
a bonfire, marshmallows
his jacket on my back
It was cold, it felt like
an embrace

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