Aulasy

From the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows:

Aulasy: n. The sadness that there’s no way to convey a powerful memory to people who weren’t there at the time - driving past your childhood home to show it to a friend, or pointing at a picture of a loved one you lost, only to realize that to them it’s just another house, just another face. 

There was an era of fenced-in yards and sandboxes and carefree summer days beneath the lemon drop sun. Of Halloween costumes lovingly made by my grandma - I remember a spider and a vampire. Of always being in the neighbor’s yard, yelling and playing make believe.

Another era of summers spent at the swim club, swim meets every week in June and July, skipping practice, sunbathing. Spending the month of August in the south of France, on the Mediterranean. Days with feet in the sand and swimming in the sea and evenings eating at that awesome restaurant, then ice cream at the shop next door. Mornings at the open air market. 

An era of meeting people who become friends who end up family. Spending time with them, having dinner, laughing over drinks or coffee. The chosen family, bound by trials or paved with shared experiences. 

The (few) eras of losing people you love, family bound by blood or otherwise. Having to say your final goodbye to someone who’s meant the world to you, and all you’re saying goodbye to is an empty vessel. The wounds left behind deep and may never heal, the pain only getting easier to bear, though never fading. 

The same era of saying goodbye to my older brother after losing a battle with his own mind. To my maternal grandparents (six years apart) who were like a second pair of parents. To my paternal grandfather, who had gone through a battle (or several) of the physical kind. To my cousin, not three years older than me, another lost too young. 

An era of before and after. A moment when everything changed, when I went from the person I was to the one I am. Reality shifted and everything is different. I’m slightly darker, emotionally and mentally, swimming in a haze, but different. And branded by death. 

The era of nights that seem to be endless until the sun rises in the morning. Sleepless darkness as I watch the minutes tick by, fading into the eternal void. Relentless exhaustion, and yet sleep still eludes me. Sometimes more fickle than a summer day in April. Restlessness is my bedfollow on nights such as this, and I’m loath to tell it to leave. Otherwise, restlessness becomes agitation. 

An era seemingly out of joint. Faded memories and half-forgotten stories fill the spaces, a memoir of moments, chaotic and wild and warm. Relying on the vague retellings to fill the gaps; the quiet whispers of an unreliable narrator sometimes filling the silence. 

The era with the sweetest pup, taking long walks on trails. Cuddling on the couch. Ear scratches and belly rubs as we watched TV. The pup who was always at the front door to welcome us home and greeted us with kisses and tip-tapping toes of joy. 

The lost eras. The ones when I’d forgotten who I was or didn’t recognize myself. The ones I don’t remember. Lost to the void, empty and black. Shadowed or broken, missing pieces, torn to shreds. The ones my brain buried, locked in a box, to protect itself, never to release them. 

The (almost) lifelong era of reading, devouring each book almost as soon as they’re in my hands. I’ve lived a thousand different lives in a thousand different places. Lost myself in the words and experienced different things, just by reading. 

The era of the poet, using my own written words to express what’s hard for me to say, or tell a story, or spell out my dreams, yearnings, memories, desires. A different way to feel or live a life I otherwise wouldn’t. A way I won’t ever lose myself or disappear.