Days Past

A Memory

With a throbbing pace, the train pressed on through the still-sleeping metropolis. A machine from decades ago, it offered a lethargic scene at this time of day through its years-stained windows if one only cared to look — sordid ill-lighted avenues, the occasional light blares of 24-hour establishments, anaemic lamp posts as old and as poorly maintained as the train itself, and the sporadic but welcome sporting of mountain ranges in the horizon when one is fortunate enough to be able to see pass the numerous imposing edifices of the city.

The sun is rising.

Leaning against a handrail inside one of the cars, he stared at his watch, a relic from an era long gone. It was twenty before six. As the train bungled on, he looked out through the windows, too lost in thoughts to even see over the blurs of the city. Not even this train’s morning hubbub can break through his own train of thoughts.

And then something did.

He is reminded of a singular scent. It was weird how his brain works every now and then — too buried in thoughts at times, and yet too easily distracted, too. With an effort, he tried to locate this particular scent, and realised what it was.

It was the scent of one of those strawberry-shaped pencil erasers.

Why? Why is he being reminded of it at this point in time?

He thought of his childhood. It was one of those pencil erasers that you can get from one of the many run-down stores around the school. He can’t remember if he actually owned one. Was it from one of his classmates, then? Probably a seatmate? A girl? Boys aren’t supposed to own pretty and cute things, after all, or so they say. And too clear yet is the memory of the scent.

He shrugged. He wasn’t really bothered by the details — just curious. What he really wanted to know was why is he being reminded of it. Was it just a random thing his brain did? Or was it a revelation from the subconscious?

The memory of a scent, a reminder of days past.

We humans generally lack the ability to appreciate things while we still have it. What were gentle and true and important seem to be more appreciated through memories.

Like a silent flower in the middle of the arid warren that is life — barely visible among the chaos and the clutter, acknowledged only when the petals began to fall, its ultimate fate pressed in-between the pages of memory.

But not for him.

And so he flicked through these pages, of the memories that has sustained him through the years.

And the train carried on.

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