All of us live with our past. All of us allow it to shape our future. But some of us know how to shrug the past. I think that is who I am...

That is who I try to be. Is that too harsh?

Now, some of us (me, especially) might be wondering why I'm writing. Some (most) people will be grumbling that they don't care. I don't either. But this single collection of freshly arranged words, sewn together by threads of ignorance, carries a lot of meaning for my humble being. The first and the last pages of an untold diary. No dates, no times, no 'dear diary.'

While I'm blotting these blank pages with ink, one lost tune seems to find me and bleed in. One tune that is hard to explain, easy to ponder upon.

I'll steal you the stars from the darkest of nights,

And bleed you rubies gouged out from my heart

Oh look at the ground dearest- I set it alight,

After tearing the skies apart.

Upon such a night, you fly away

Into those voids of infinite rhymes,

Tell me if you saw those tears that swayed

When the blue faded from your sapphire eyes.

Well, you took all the light, the night you bring,

You're dead, dearest. Now let us sing...

Imagining these verses bring upon vivid memories at the bottom of my heart. And I start to ache. Badly.

When I look out of the double paned windows of my second floor apartment room, the night waves at me. I don't wave back. This writing business is awfully frustrating if you don't experience what you write; fulfilling if you do. Yet even as the stars shine down upon the window glass, saying that maybe...maybe I do not feel what I'm writing, I don't believe it.

Shrug off the past, blow away the future, and kiss the present. It's going to be a long, long night.

The devil who went by the name of cancer, took away my wife on the eve of autumn of some sad year. Which year, doesn't matter. Amelia Clarke. I look at the pale yellow lamp-light splayed on my paper and jump back to the night when the smoke rang with tears. Her parents, my parents and a few others were present when she was cremated. They had cried. Me? The tears hadn't come, but there was this sculptor. Inside my head. And he was chipping away, slowly and painfully at all those memories Amelia and I had created. Then he took those broken pieces and sprayed it all over my heart. They had stung. You don't really know what that feels unless you've experienced it first hand- losing someone whom you couldn't imagine losing. It had been done to me while I was staring at those flames lick up her auburn hair, wishing and wishing they wouldn't get to those precious blue eyes of hers'.

Yet they had.

One week before my wife's throat cells went haywire, she had given me a memento, or memorabilia, or whatever you call those things that signify a person's life. And she had said something which I never really got. She had said- "Eddy, send away when you need most." And through the waves of newly surfacing sad emotions, I had seen her blink at her tears. And I had seen one single droplet edge around her cheek, and disappear into those brownish curls that lay on the hospital pillow. What she had handed me was her harmonica. Deep blue with gold and black designs. Blue was in fact her favourite colour. I loved to hear her play it. Soothing waves that flow over your mind, listening to tunes that rise and swell, then sink in deep. She used to laugh while playing it, adding more subtle beauty to that smooth music. And, I guess that was the only thing that made us feel the immensity of the bond we shared. That- and slow dancing. That strange blue harmonica and its dances...me and my Amelia...such connections shouldn't be expressed in paper, lest it takes away the charm.

I guess what is happening with me, is happening to thousands of people across the globe. Well, to cope up with it, hundreds write. And now, inexplicably, I know that it really works. The pen keeps moving while the mind stops. And you know that you are preserving some part of you in these fresh yellow pages.

Ah, well...I just hope my part is pure. Something tells me it is.

*

I woke up this morning before the call of my alarm. I went to the balcony, carrying a coffee mug, silently gazing down, to look at the cars go by, lazy pedestrians strolling around on the edge of 5 AM, and watching the street kids play. I looked back to see the harmonica lying fetchingly on the bedside table. 'Send away when you need most.' Now, why would I do that? I shake my head to blur her words. I get washed up, change, and head out to work. (Why am I writing in the present tense? Because writing in past makes it feel like my life's a movie clip being played for entertainment. Nope. My life is happening.) I check myself. Wallet, mobile, keys, pen- check. Harmonica? Inside pocket of the cheap suit. Somehow, taking it with me makes me feel good. I pick up my books and leave. I teach twelfth grade physics in a private school. But, maybe that's not important.

I walk down the fleet of stairs, reach the reception of the apartment and pass through the main gate, preparing myself for the smell of real air, after the fresh lime scent of the reception.

Just a usual day. Nothing special. The skies are at their bluest, the sun is almost up the horizon and I'm alive. Nothing special.

I cross the main campus of the apartments and head out to brace the streets. My head down, hands in the pockets, books tucked safely under my arms, feet on the footpath; humming up a pretty cool tune while deciding exactly how today's lecture would play out. I check my watch- 6 AM. Plenty of time to school. I was preoccupied, so I didn't see the furry brown thing rush by my feet, nor hear the childish laughter and running feet that followed. But I did feel the crash that came next. I stumbled backwards, tripped, arms splayed. The books flew away and I landed on my rear. I looked up to see the cause of the misfortune, grimacing at the scream of my hips. A girl. Of about nine or ten picking my books, coming towards me... I got up as she handed me the books. She stood in front of me, her head down (awaiting judgement?). I look back and see a pup- brown and white- panting at me, waiting, maybe, for her. "Are you hurt?" I ask looking back at the girl. She shakes her head nervously. I notice the fresh scrapes on her knees. One was bleeding. And it was a pretty bad cut. "You sure?" I ask pointing to her knee now. Fidgeting with the hem of her almost tattered frock, she looks up at me

You know, there are moments in life- completely random- where you meet people, know them, love them, and let them go...but there is always some part of you that stays. For many, that's a gift, for some, a curse. But instead of predicting stuff, assorting them into boxes of good, bad, fun and sad; sometimes, letting them just be seems like the best option. Forgetting the past unless the emotions attached to it surface. But, actually, not able to do that often is what makes us humans. So yeah, when I saw her- the little girl who bashed into me, I felt the past surfacing.

A younger version of my wife- that's what she looked like. The same roundish face, 'petite' nose, those brownish curls, big doe eyes that bled blue- of the deepest and the lightest hues forming a breathtaking mixture on an artist's palette.

The memories- they came in short sharp pulses. Me asking her out- the night- the kiss- the ring- the home- the bed- the harmonica- words and dances- her dead- breaking...now. Now? Where am I? I look down at her eyes (nervous, yes. Nervous yet firm) and stammer. "You...uh..." I gaze at her for a moment or so. "Let me fix...fix that up for you." I gestured at her knee. She was obviously pretty badly hurt, so she nodded. She managed to walk a few blocks to my home, her pup behind her. I stumbled forward like a drunk. Trying to forget her. Let her go... because remembering Amelia is so much pain.

Before I found myself in my room, holding a wet cotton swab to wash the blood off, all I remember is reaching for the harmonica and...

Falling, falling, falling...

"So what's your name?" I ask. It's 7:30 AM. She had made herself at ease over this span of one and a half hour. She's smiling, holding her pup in her lap. "Amy, Mr. Clarke." "Call me Ed, dear. And who's he?" I point to the pup. "She's Iris. My friend." "You like ice-cream, Amy?" I walk towards the fridge. As I get up, I see her blush. "Never tried one." She said quietly.

She left at 7:45. I dropped her off to where I found her, where she said

she'll go her own way. I feel myself staring at the back of her head, noticing

the (apparently) coincident similarities between her and my wife. That

smile, the way of expressing delight (after- for the first time-experiencing

the sweet flavour of strawberry ice-cream) and the same way of not

expressing hurt (as I cleaned the wound). Such random coincidences are

weird to explain. They just happen.

But doesn't everything around us simply happen? I guess it does. The past happens to be living in the present, which too, is happening.

Well, shit happens. We all get over it.

I chose to walk even though I was late for school. Walking has its own pleasures.

I reach school, give my lectures, and hold a surprise test in one class. But everywhere, a halo of that face stared at me. That sweet, sweet face of her that made me feel the burden of the harmonica I was carrying.

I wonder if Amelia is looking from the skies above. Isn't that what keeps us from doing something wrong? Believing that someone is watching? I have to say it works on me. Every step we humans take on this dusty road of life has (almost always) been walked upon. We can't live in the present without forming experiences from the past.

('Oh really, Eddy?' I asked myself as I wrote that. 'Wasn't the past your present at that point? Wasn't every past your present since you were born? Where did you get your experiences then, smarty? In the womb? The past, present...bullshit. All of it's relative, making it all the easier to forget about it. Blah, blah, blah')

I don't know what to say anymore.

Maybe the past everyone keeps referring to are just the memories of their beloved ones.

Oh, Amelia, when will I shrug you off? Will your sapphires keep watching me forever?

I stayed in school till evening. I got my stuff and headed out at about 6:15 PM. A crisp evening with the sun casting out its orange glow across the purple skies of this august. I came out of the school gates and stared up at the colours of the skies. Colours...they're just about everywhere aren't they? Watching...

Colours like freshly cut gems that you want to reach out for...rubies, amethysts, jades, onyxes and pearls, diamonds and yep, (I'm repetitive, and boring) sapphires. The random joys that I sometimes feel while looking at the skies are inexpressible. And so is the yearning to see my (little?) wife again. Smiling, I head out towards home.

It's almost evening now. For some absurd reason, the Christmas song pops into my head-

'Silent night, holy night,

All is calm, all is bright,

Round yon virgin mother and child

Holy infant so tender and...'

I stop in my tracks for I hear sobs. Amy. She is just where I had left her; curled up in a foetal position, only with her arms around her head. I advance cautiously and squat down. "Amy? Something wrong?" I ask softly, idiotically. Of course something's wrong. She shakes her head.

Well, it took a lot of coaxing to get it out of her. Her pup, Iris, she had been run over by a car while they were playing. Amy had taken her body and buried it somewhere close to her home (which, she told me, was more like a little shack where she and her friends lived together).

When you lose someone... (Maybe I'll just shut up.) Amy and I were sitting on the footpath with our backs to a wall. 8:00 PM. A handful of people walking on the streets. "Mum and dad gave me Iris before dying; leaving me all alone and sad. She said when her tears ebbed. I take out the harmonica and put it to my lips.

Well, for five long years it had been lying unused. But still, it played unrestricted. The tunes come out unformed. My wife used to play it beautifully. Not me. Still, I try. Nope, not working. I try again. And again. A giggle escapes from Amy's lips. Her eyes are still glazed with tears. She takes the harmonica from me. And plays it. I don't think I'll ever forget that night when the stars heard the music that belonged to the dead, reborn. She played it beautifully to say the least. "Mum had one of these and taught me when I was six" she remarked.

Music does things which silence and words cannot. As she played it, she brightened. Her eyes, they were at their bluest. Like sapphires, cut out by music. Her eyes laughed and danced and bled...past forgotten, only to be remembered in the present. 'Send away when you need most...' she played the harmonica for about half an hour and, I gave it to her. People, I guess, are remembered best when passed on. She took it reluctantly and I asked her to stop by every now and then. The past is not forgotten. Only subdued by something more powerful- like...Amy and her music.

That's my story- with its anticlimactic climax.

So, now, finally, I ask myself- 'How blue are they- those sapphires of Amelia and Amy?' well, I know the answer to that question. They aren't blue at all. They are alive. And alive is changing. Infinite hues like music of the soul.

-From the hands of Eddy Clarke

Some unforgotten date,

Some unforgotten time,

Some forgotten life.