Remembrance of Things Past

The frail winter sun that caresses this windswept park in a quiet northern country town is of little solace, its pale warmth adding no more than a superficial joy to my being here. The sun will soon fade, leaving in its place the inconstant trace of undreamt of stars; very soon the wind shall be all that remains for the senses to delight in, the last tangible sign of life left in this quiet, time-forgotten and world-forsaken country town. I always loved the wind here, its sudden coldness on long summer sunsets being a symbol of life’s inexorabilities, the seductive uncertainty of its source breeding in me an imprecise urge to leave, its dreamy wintry iciness printing in my skin the longing for faraway places.

I left this place, but the wind didn’t. It keeps on sweeping the park, feeding extant tree leaves with a little life, keeping the town warm in forgetful chill. I’m like the wintry sun, only occasionally touching the streets of this quiet country town, a passer-by in the landscape of my early youth. I’m not very original in that: everywhere I see dimly familiar faces of people like me, who have left and returned, each one treading the clew of his own memories.

Getting entangled in the treacherous web of the past is an often overlooked part of Christmas. In fact, it is certainly also that: a yearly return to the past, a revisiting of dormant memories, a sometimes unwilling disturbing of the waters. And yet, there’s a river in my hometown, my whole childhood was indeed a flowing river of happy forgetfulness, as childhood always is, still untainted by the mark of remembrance…

Sitting here, in this café overlooking the sunlit townscape, I vaguely remember the ancient Lethe while I quietly contemplate the impossibility of complete oblivion. I’m not very original in that, either: with a deft extension of the meaning of the words I’m writing, I’m not even individual anymore. Each generation destroys the past, only to be destroyed amidst it in the end. Like everybody else before me, I had to destroy the past, only to find myself entangled in its reflection. There’s no Lethe except in the underworld: there’s no forgetfulness but in death. Each return is a rebirth, as every winter turns into spring. The wind, in the meanwhile, shall keep sweeping the landscape of our lives, as inescapable as the swift passing of time.

Merry Christmas.