Hand in hand

Sometimes, I encounter these nights where sleep fails to knock into my soul. I lay awake for minutes, that turn into hours, and to me, days. During these nights my brain begins to take a trip down memory lane. I begin to recall random moments that have – or should have – happened. It’s difficult to draw the line between those memories that I’ve experienced and those that my brain had made up, because of the sheer bulk of memories, and the innate forgetting characteristic that I am afflicted with. Also, I’d rather not burden myself with the idea, or even the thought, of segregating my memories. Its as if you’re boxing yourself from a point in time. And that these memories are rated in importance based on whether they actually happened or not. In the words of Dumbledore, “Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”
Anyway, during one of these trips, my thoughts settled with an experience I had during my 2nd grade class.

It was a sunny afternoon of 2000, our teacher (sadly I cannot recall her name) decided to skip the day’s lesson and instead, she brought us outside to get some sunshine (okay, I can’t remember what we did here as well). We were told to line up separately, boys and girls, based from our surnames, A to Z. Having the third letter in the alphabet as a start in my surname, I was located among the first ten (which I’m rather glad). We got lined up and was ready to take a walk outside, when our teacher instructed us to hold hands with our partner. We all held hands, I mean, all those who had partners held hands. As I remember, we had more boys than girls in the class, so those guys that didn’t had a partner, those who had surnames that are at the near end, were left hanging without one.
Anyway, as we were walking through the corridors, holding hands with my partner, I noticed that she was squirming and struggling on her grip. I gave her a polite wondering look, and she hit me with a stern one. And then she said that we weren’t holding hands properly. Before I could ask how, with her free hand she took mine, twisted it clockwise (almost breaking my wrist in the process) and had my palm face upward. She, then, placed her other hand on mine.

If you’ll ask me where is she now. I’d say that I do not know. Actually I didn’t like her much when I remember those days. It’s funny what memories our brain shows us, during nights that sleep fails us.

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