Phantasm
02-07-2005, 09:56 PM
I was in one of my embarrasingly nostalgic moods after going through an old photo album. And the final product of taking a moment to stop, look back and jot down flashes of the past is...this.
Now I don't do writing outside class so I understand that the piece of writing is likely to consist of grammatical/compositional errors here and there...I guess:sweat: . Although it represents a series of random,heartfelt moments of life during my 7/8 year old self, I did try to somewhat give it order...It is dedicated to one of my very first best friends.lol!The events described are true and occured once in one of the friendly vicinities of Tehran during my short stay there.
Feedback would be immensely appreciated.:)
I Remember...
I remember the hot pink color of her bike. The way in which the shiny metal of it would gleam whenever the feeble rays of the October sun would dance upon it. It was one of those bikes that came with a basket in front. Very similar to the utterly girly ones that women in classic musicals would ride along on. Dressed in flowery gowns, curly wild hair getting tousled in the wind, they would be singing all the while traveling up some picturesque European mountain on bikes with baskets in front. Baskets in which would be flowers, all arranged in a pretty pattern. She never kept anything in hers though. Except the occasional packet of chips which we’d throw in there when cycling back home from after spending the day in the park.
I remember the plastic silver of her ‘German rollerblades.’ The sight of those six transparent wheels stuck to the bottom of the weighty silver boot in her grasp was one that had warm tears of jealousy spill down my sun burned cheeks. It was only after spending the better part of the sultry afternoon rolling around in her blades that I grinned as enthusiastically about their smoothness as she did. Even better was the first time we strode proudly on the skating ringmaking sure to flaunt our own set of roller blades. That moment would be marked in future as the day we officially said goodbye to standing wistfully in the sidelines and licking our rapidly melting orange Popsicle bars as others breezed around the cement floor.
I remember the bland, washed off redness of her garden hose. The sight was almost never complete without her dad’s presence. Her dad with his glistening bald head covered with barely there grey streaked hair. Always found noisily spraying his beloved plants of all shapes and sizes till they dripped with water droplets. The way in which his face would stretch to reveal a pleasant smile as he gazed down at us, his giant of a form a silhouette due to the last rays of the evening sun overhead. Sweet, cold water would stream out of the pipe which he’d handover to us. After taking eager gulps of ‘Aab-e-Tehran’ and then wiping our chins with the back of our often mud encrusted hands, we’d rush out the gateway, our feet deliberately splashing on the water washed worn out pavement.
I remember the wave of my small hand. Out of the wide open car window it waved in swift motions frantically, desperately. My eyes tried to hold on to the rapidly receding street, at the moment specked with golden leaves. And there amidst them she stood, shrinking as quickly as her surroundings. I kept on waving and waving, even after I knew she wouldn’t be able to see any of it...just as I couldn't see her.
Now I don't do writing outside class so I understand that the piece of writing is likely to consist of grammatical/compositional errors here and there...I guess:sweat: . Although it represents a series of random,heartfelt moments of life during my 7/8 year old self, I did try to somewhat give it order...It is dedicated to one of my very first best friends.lol!The events described are true and occured once in one of the friendly vicinities of Tehran during my short stay there.
Feedback would be immensely appreciated.:)
I Remember...
I remember the hot pink color of her bike. The way in which the shiny metal of it would gleam whenever the feeble rays of the October sun would dance upon it. It was one of those bikes that came with a basket in front. Very similar to the utterly girly ones that women in classic musicals would ride along on. Dressed in flowery gowns, curly wild hair getting tousled in the wind, they would be singing all the while traveling up some picturesque European mountain on bikes with baskets in front. Baskets in which would be flowers, all arranged in a pretty pattern. She never kept anything in hers though. Except the occasional packet of chips which we’d throw in there when cycling back home from after spending the day in the park.
I remember the plastic silver of her ‘German rollerblades.’ The sight of those six transparent wheels stuck to the bottom of the weighty silver boot in her grasp was one that had warm tears of jealousy spill down my sun burned cheeks. It was only after spending the better part of the sultry afternoon rolling around in her blades that I grinned as enthusiastically about their smoothness as she did. Even better was the first time we strode proudly on the skating ringmaking sure to flaunt our own set of roller blades. That moment would be marked in future as the day we officially said goodbye to standing wistfully in the sidelines and licking our rapidly melting orange Popsicle bars as others breezed around the cement floor.
I remember the bland, washed off redness of her garden hose. The sight was almost never complete without her dad’s presence. Her dad with his glistening bald head covered with barely there grey streaked hair. Always found noisily spraying his beloved plants of all shapes and sizes till they dripped with water droplets. The way in which his face would stretch to reveal a pleasant smile as he gazed down at us, his giant of a form a silhouette due to the last rays of the evening sun overhead. Sweet, cold water would stream out of the pipe which he’d handover to us. After taking eager gulps of ‘Aab-e-Tehran’ and then wiping our chins with the back of our often mud encrusted hands, we’d rush out the gateway, our feet deliberately splashing on the water washed worn out pavement.
I remember the wave of my small hand. Out of the wide open car window it waved in swift motions frantically, desperately. My eyes tried to hold on to the rapidly receding street, at the moment specked with golden leaves. And there amidst them she stood, shrinking as quickly as her surroundings. I kept on waving and waving, even after I knew she wouldn’t be able to see any of it...just as I couldn't see her.