At that particular time

I wonder how my parents, and all the many couples I know, moved to a new place with no family or friends and adjusted there? Four months on and still no friends in the area, I feel defeated. I’ve moved before, alone and with family. Why is this any different? Maybe I’m too old to make those connections again? It feels like so much work, how can anything match those moments again where I felt like I belonged? Although HD and I spend most of our time together, sometimes I feel like I need to talk. I’ve realised that it isn’t that I would like to talk about anything in particular, I would just like a conversation with a friend. To talk about something different, something they would like to talk about. I do get conversations with good friends from time to time on skype or phone but I guess that’s just not enough. I guess it’s not enough to go on a trip to Houston and have a great time with family. I guess it’s not enough to go on a trip to NYC and meet family and new friends if you can’t come home and call someone close by. If in your little town, you are still as alone as you were before.

This too shall pass hopefully and possibly sooner than I realise as I start work. I the future, when I look back at this time of heady newly-weddedness when the two of us seem so self-sufficient, will I remember that we weren’t really so? Most of the time, we are enough for each other, absorbed as we are in our own days and weeks, in our plans for the summer or for the apartment. Absorbed in each other as we have the time and attention span to devote solely and selfishly to ourselves. Free to observe every silhouette and changing mode and cater to it in everyway. Sometimes, when I am alone I feel through the cracks in my happiness just how lonely this lifestyle can be; and sometimes those cracks become gaping holes making me feel so incomplete.

I remember when I first arrived here, the newness of everything was so lovely and exciting. It was a different feeling, one that I can’t really describe, I guess I was just content to sit back and let this chapter unfold. I remember one of the first drives we took through this city, the first time we ate out at Chilli’s and the first time we spread out a blanket in the empty living room and had lunch. For the first 3 days, I cried for no reason for a few minutes at the same time each day. I guess my body was acknowledging the sadness of leaving behind the life I had even though my conscious mind was enjoying the new one.

Funny that one of the things I miss the most is the walk from my house to the train station. It was a prelude to going anywhere, to meeting up with friends, running errands, going to work. That 20 minute walk back and forth seemed annoying on some days but I knew it was important. My mind could just wander or focus on whatever it felt like. I would walk out of the house, out the big white gate, out of the neighborhood, down the long road, turn left on to a street going downhill, cross the little bridge over the river (more like a stream), hear the water rushing past and look at it for a few seconds without stopping just to take it in, and then uphill for a few minutes – the hardest part that would always get me hot as I wouldn’t break my pace for fear of missing the train – then climb the stairs onto the station platform, a few minutes wait for the train, all aboard and a 15 minutes journey into Gare Cornavin of Geneva. I’ve done that walk in all seasons with the sun beating down on me so that the walk gets me sweaty by the time I reach the train, in the rain with my purple umbrella and in the snow. Also on lovely sunny days with cool breezes and warm silent nights when I have walked back home after spending time on town with friends. I have unlocked that front door and tip-toed back into the house, taken my shoes off and gone up the stairs to the room with the purple wall that I painted. Quietly taken off make-up, brushed my teeth, changed into pyjamas, answered Ammi who called out from bed to check if I’m home and then turn in for the night.

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