In the early morning

I need to tell you what it was like. The only existence of it now lies in my memory. It is about a time lost – in this act of telling it will live and breathe by itself.

I am in its bloodstream, in its heart and lungs, in its brain and thoughts and senses – under its skin.

I travel through this landscape of memory like a frequent visitor, discovering a terrain that I thought was gone forever: when I left you, without a second glance, I quickly missed you more than you can imagine. At the time, I only half denied this feeling. (The shock of the separation has come back to me.) I remember I had become embarrassed that I had known you in my childhood and youth and, when others talked about you, I didn’t even admit I knew you. I simply did not wish to be associated with you and so I existed as if I had never known you.

Your landscape haunts me nightly. I go to your loveliness in my dreams. Your heat and dust, your hills and valleys. Your trees on the blue skyline glide in a song of astonishment.

I loved you but I hated the attitude you had. I loathed your racism and rejected you: you who had been in my blood and bones. It comes at me that there were other you’s and the one that I had known was simply an aberration and I could have found the other parts of you and made my peace with that.

Your landscape haunts me nightly. I go to your loveliness in my dreams. Your heat and dust, your hills and valleys. Your trees on the blue skyline glide in a song of astonishment.

Your balancing rocks that I played on. Your rain on my window. Your light in the morning and your glow worms at night.

I existed on you, in you, by you and and grew up with you.

You come at me in senses and thoughts.

When I die there will only be some scribblings and jottings, the odd bit of poetry to tell what you were like. In this morning of an early sunrise, it’s not been entirely possible even now to capture it. I hope you understand.

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