A Continual Farewell
Alexander Lurikov
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 by Alexander Lurikov
A Continual Farewell
As I poured myself another glass of whiskey I was reminded of my childhood. When I was a boy I made a map of an imaginary city. In this city there were many strange things: a street that only appeared on Wednesdays; an upside-down tower that rose—that is, fell—fifty stories underground; a human zoo where animals came to observe people; a library built from books; a bridge that led to different places depending on the time of day; and a café that served magical potions. It was this café in particular that I thought of while pouring myself a drink, for although the effects of whiskey had ceased being magical, its color was as lovely as any elixir I could imagine. I took a sip, closed my eyes, and pretended that all sorts of fantastic things were happening to me.
Suddenly I had an idea. There was a box in my closet filled with an assortment of my old possessions. I ran upstairs, removed the box from the closet, and emptied its contents onto my bed. After an excited search through the scattered items, I resigned myself to the fact that the map was not there. I realized how foolish an idea it had been. The map, like the rest of my childhood, had been abandoned long ago. But before I became too disappointed, something else caught my curiosity. Among the items in the box was a photograph of a young woman. At first I couldn’t recall who she was; then, with a dizzying thrill, I remembered: it was Elsa.
Once I had remembered her I found it perfectly absurd that I had managed to forget her. How could someone so exquisite slip my mind? I wanted to scold my clumsy memory. In all these years it had gorged itself on frivolous incidents and gaudy trivia, allowing the one true treasure it possessed to be displaced. Well, I had certainly paid the price for this forgetfulness: Elsa was long gone.