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Those Bitter Memories
Sep. 4th, 2026 10:26 amIn the years when he was still in his hometown, he used to sit at the curb early in the morning. He would watch the kids and their kites soaring above their heads, the cats climbing up the walls and the scavenging dogs shining under the sun. Life was quiet back then, the thing that usually broke silence was the lady that washed her clothes on the basin by the street - an unremarkable face, but a caring one - a mother of seven and grandma to at least five, yet none lived there anymore.
"I want to see you leave too, some day." as she would say, an usually quite brazen comment that is made blithe by circunstance alone.
In his lucid dreams he would see a snow-covered town full of colorful banners all-over. All sorts of cute entertainment mascots and aromatic foods ready to be met by an expectant and unseasoned taster. That was his dream, always has been, but he was chained to his small, uneventful life sitting at the curb by an old lady washing her clothes.
"This one was from my uncle, he was very far from here when he passed, but they managed to send his stuff back to the family." the scarf she pulled from the pile of clothes behind her was not so tacky as to be unwearable, but one could make a good argument against it if they wanted to. She prodded him to take it and when he cautiously approached his hand, she almost shoved it in his face. "You are going to need one for those cold countries you wanna visit, right?"
His face was warped with akwardness and a sudden disbelief. In a heartbeat he rushed inside with his new scarf held against his pounding chest. He had never even mentioned that dream to the lady.
[...]
That day lived long in his memory, the fact is that much has changed since then, his job was the first thing, then came new opportunities and finally he found a good place to live very far away from the old lady and the scorching hot sun from the curb. The one thing that oddly hasn't changed was his scarf, always the same old shabby scarf from back then, he wore it almost every day.
A few years in, his mother sent a letter, she missed him, so did his father, his little brothers and his big sisters. He paid no mind, busy with work as one often is in the city, but he couldn't help but wonder if his dog was still alive, and the old lady, how old was she again? It wouldn't make sense for her to still be alive, but he would most likely refrain from asking in the response letter, there is just no way he would ask about the ordinary old lady next door, that is, if he does remember to actually write a response letter.
Days passed, nothing changed in his life. The letter became an aftertought, then became a fogotten piece of paper stowed away somewhere in his desk. Soon, forgetting acted upon the lady's face in his mind, which was expected since her face was always so unremarkable. He soon forgot her voice, the sound of the clothes being washed in the basin, the heat of the curb and that stading here once was but a hazy and distant dream.
His mother sent another letter, one that he forgot to open. In between days of unforgettable stress at work, he forgot about his wife's birthday, that was no problem though, all it took was a couple of drinks until he forgot about her entirely. The drinks kept being memorable, and he drank until he forgot to go to work.
He sat at the curb in a snowy cold street. The one thing he wish he could forget was that shabby, tacky old scarf on his neck, so he unwrapped it carefully and threw it in the air, watching as it could soar above his head. He looked forward to the colorful banners and all the kids eating those aromatic foods he enjoyed so much. Just as he stood up, his head fell down. His cheeks brushed the cold snowy pavement and his hot blood scorched his face. It all felt like a dream.
His body tumbled with a thud and the scavenging dogs acted fast upon it.
After a day or two, even the dogs had forgotten him pretty quickly.
