Nathan AM Almeida

[30 May 2019]

There will be a time when,
Finally, then, at the end
We will find ourselves – caught between a knowing
And a not-knowing, the hour
Of twilight, if you like, where I will ask you to suspend
The notion of sleepless nights and cardboard cut-outs
(Signalling something greater but losing half the power)
And seaside shanties: mountains of rubbish
Tied together haphazardly as a last stand against the sewing
Needles of the Haverton Hills Bridge Club. Their whereabouts
Are still unknown to this day, but I will ask you to withhold judgement.

There will be a time when I ask you to forget,
Not because forgetting is any better than remembering,
But simply because I can and you cannot. So much is lost
In translation, in the assumption of memory
Into something bigger and grander than it ever could have been in vita reali.
The egg’s been over-boiled but still runs when you crack the shell.
In my more honest moments, I know I will make a thorough reflection on
My culpability in the matter somewhere between breakfast and lunch
On every second Tuesday afternoon, and occasionally on a Friday,
For precisely 32 minutes before washing it all down with a quick-steeped brew
Of nostalgia, feigned innocence, self-flagellation, and maybe a mimosa.

There will be a time when, by process of elimination,
We find ourselves standing on the corner of Seaforth and Kingsgate,
Umbrella in hand,
Pondering the road that brought us to this point,
Wondering what happened to our wristwatches and wellies and our sense of self-worth.
You’ll lean over to me and say something about the weather and how
You’d much prefer it if we could catch a breather back at the station,
And I’ll have nothing further to add to that,
So, instead, we’ll head home and split a generous serving
Of liver sausage and gravy on our pyrite plates.

There will be a time when the last thing,
The only thing,
We can do is what we should have done in the first –
Namely, to forget: To forget to believe, to forget to say
To ourselves that these, too, are just fragments of something
That never really could amount to anything, even when we wanted them to
(Even though we can’t say we didn’t try).