Rememberings. The rest is personal.

It is the first of February today. Today we were to turn 27, had D been around. 

Oh well he is not.

27 years ago on this day I lied to the Thermodynamics prof and excused myself out of the university classroom with awkward urgency to attend to a medical emergency at home and spent the whole day with D. Walked, talked, ate, drank beer, laughed at his jokes, noted that i liked his smile and how the eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed at his own joke, paused to be awed by a starlight screensaver on his fancy compaq computer and let him kiss me. Almost everything was a first. 

First February we celebrated. Nobody knew we did. Also because the wedding anniversary we didnt. We didnt because our wedding brought back stressful and unpleasant memories and made us fight. The wedding was about a lot of other people (save few) who were unhappy about how the execution was flawed - the marriage in general and the wedding in particular. That day was not about us. First February once used to be about us. 

27 feels long, nebulous, surreal, meaningful. Enough to know if this had honesty and integrity beyond hormones or poetry. A number that comes with a lot of amassed baggage and retrospection. When we started off, we were frightfully young and naively full of dreams. When we decided to do a life together, we were not thinking of creating a fancy home. Just wanted to find one. The picture of a home in the two minds must have been different. So we never really found one. In a house or in each other. When we drifted, we were still there. In alienation, in honesty. When he was losing inside, nearing the end, we kept trying, in our own ways. When we were parted by death, we learnt we cared more than we thought we did. 

So here we are. Officially 27 today. Not quite the planned tenure though. Didnt get to travel the distance we had planned to travel together, not even halfway. Couldnt find that home, eventually, many houses and people later. Donot even have the warmest of love stories to tell our children. 

A story of a strange love nonetheless. 

The rest remains personal.