By: Annapurani Vaidyanathan
In the library this morning, when I was picking up the books I had dropped while standing in the queue. I thought I saw your hazel eyes look up for a tick from the pile of newspapers covering your face and laugh at my bumbling clumsiness. Just what I know, you would do.
When I saw the bearer in the cafe carrying six cups of charmomile tea to a table at lunchtime – what I’ve seen you order when numbers troubled you. I thought I saw you unconsciously chew the end of your pen and hunch over to scribble more equations on a torn scrap of tissue.
When I went for a stroll in the park at five this evening and noticed a pair of sturdy hands playing with the dogs from the neighbouring streets. I thought I saw you crouch down to clean their fur and let them sniff your freckles before you gave them their treats.
I followed the echo of your footsteps to reach you before you slipped away, but I realized they are a shadow of the memories I live with, to get by each day.