Temps Perdu/Temps Retrouvé

by Giulia Martinez Brenner

Routine: bedtime playlist, bedtime joint, pyjamas, lip balm.

I wonder what my unitmates are doing right now. Eight other people living, sleeping, working, shitting. Days intertwined, separated by paper and cement. Sometimes I catch them walking down the hall, towel wrapped tight, leaving a trail of wet footprints. Sometimes doors are left open. Eight other people, such familiar strangers I now call home. Funny how things change.

Seventeen, Sharon Van Etten. Feel Nostalgic. Things really do go by too quickly. Hot take. There are moments that are stronger reminders and the knowledge becomes physical, this mortal knot tightens.

A life I have not yet had, bleeding, haemorrhaging, through a paper cut in time. Temps perdu, temps retrouvé, permanently inked on my thighs.

Eighteen year old me thought herself quite the intellectual. I wonder what makes things immune to regret. How are we expected to not cling to the past? To not hold onto memory? Any attempt to fool ourselves that things last a little longer.

My parents started another business. My father is now making bagels. You should know he is an extraordinary cook.

Not so long ago we were driving somewhere and he explained to me how he perfected his onion bagel.

His dad ate one every morning, standing at the kitchen counter, boxer shorts and butter. I never knew my grandfather. My dad played with recipes until the day he opened the oven and he was a child again. And unlocked that fuzzy outline of a man in boxers with onions on his breath. Funny how things remain.

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Loss

By Rafaella Karadsheh

Growing up, I’ve always been told to never dwell on my past. However, I’ve recently come to the conclusion that I’ll never be able to avoid doing that. I’ve found that dwelling on the past makes it easier to move forward, especially when it comes to dealing with grief.

My grandma (suddenly) passed away a few weeks ago, and coming to terms with that has been difficult. When I flew home to spend time with my family, I couldn’t help but notice a gaping hole every time we visited my grandpa. The room felt quieter, empty without laughs at her witty remarks. Her usual spot on the couch looked odd without her sitting down, cosily wrapped up in blankets. To fill this hole, I’ve been revisiting the past. I remember her gentle smiles, and her soft laughs, and all the joy she brought everyone who knew her.

I could write a thousand pages talking about how incredible my grandmother was, but one thing I know was that she was extremely smart. She was the kind of person who would read a book, and remember every detail years later. It came in handy during school, and she ended up skipping a year. She always wanted to be a nurse, and when the time came, she was offered the opportunity to study and train to become a nurse for free. However, her father did not allow it. Decades later, my grandma would still talk about how she was denied the opportunity to pursue her dreams.

Ever since I’ve heard my grandmother talk about the opportunity taken from her as a child, I’ve learned that it’s sometimes hard to forget the past. No matter how far you go in life, you will always think of the past to think of the present, and wonder what could have been. Sometimes it brings clarity in the jumbled mess that comes with grief. Sometimes it helps you cope with the present. Either way, dwelling on the past might not be as bad as they tell you.