My friend picked up the book that was on the front seat of my car before he stepped in.
“Ah!” said he, “Nice book, can I borrow it?”
“Of course you can,” said I, while I was turning the wheel to get out of the parking lot.
On that day, my friend looked exhausted, but his frail body and pale face never attenuated the passion in his eyes. My friend was a monk-spirit with a hedonistic mind, no doubt; he lived for his love and his compassion.
Six months later, my friend died of lung cancer. I spent a week or so in deep grief, and many were in his yard for a simple and touching memorial. A while after the memorial, I remembered the book from the front seat. I asked his friends and his family about it; no one had a clue about the book. Then, I started a ghost hunt in my mind because I totally forgot the book’s title and the name of the author! I dug deep down in my memory; I scrutinized the Internet, tried the library, and watched the bewildered face of the polite lady behind the desk. I was sure she was asking herself, “What a goof!” The book had just vanished from my mind. Then I asked myself, “What am I looking for, a book or a lost friend?” Sometimes, I flirted with the idea that my friend took the book with him—maybe he couldn’t finish it, and death was faster than his reading pace. This loss of memory still intrigues me. Did I erase the book from my mind when my friend passed to another dimension?
To you, my friend, I will let go of the book, just like I’ve let the grief sleep in my heart for your loss.
~ Naja Yazbek
