Every special day is private to
the people enjoying it.
We don't share our memories with
each other; at least not the ones we
treasure the most.
That day becomes the reason for your giggling in
the bus when her blue handbag reminds us of
someone else, something else from
a galaxy existing farther than far away:
that lady, that man, Bob Dylan.
When the teacher asks us in class to
let her in on the reason for our laughter, I
want to tell her that
she won't understand because
all her days were numbers as
we were dancing to infinity.
Neither do we understand her celebration of
the universe of numbers and
we don't bother to try because it remains
only for her, a private joke.
Instead, focusing to
rejoice on the whiteness of her chalky
hands as she
drags the duster across the board,
Our parties exist under the misty sheen of
There have been all the days in the
world to commemorate our collective
memories, but what about the
lady, the man, and Bob Dylan?
Do we have to paste that day on the calendar or
stick a sign on the place where you
tripped and created the
story that would redefine our lives?
Will they end with us, or
will they continue in some other way, these
stories we are too embarrassed to
tell others about, but
too attached to leave behind?
Do all days of celebration need to be hoisted up on calendars?