Remembrance

I read it in a book once.

I heard it in this song I hate on the radio.

I hear it in the way Mr. Nelson says, "Hipster,"

And in the way you touched my back with your fingertips,

Like you were excavating a cave with fire.  

I saw it once when I made a name for myself, 

Not in terms of success,

But in terms of, "Unless You Want To Use Your Real Name."

Which I didn't.  

I didn't want to put the face to the name,

Because I don't like what I see. 

Step away and shine the flashlight on my face.  

I am never what anyone expects,

I am what everyone gets.  

What if you shut the flashlight off?

Just until May?

Until they call my name at graduation 

And you realize it isn't Simran Stone.  

I met Simi in a dreary, foreign place

With trash littering the streets and the sky

The color of ash.  

It wasn't until she told me to never forget, 

To remember her and this place

That I found out her name meant 

"The Act of Remembrance" in Hindi. 

Simran.  Simran.  Simran.  

She's real, but she isn't me.  

I take you want to know who I am?

I am the same girl who was in love in October.  

I am the same girl who thought that she was fat in sixth grade.

I am the same girl who has had writer's block for five days

Straight and is unsure if she will post this or not. 

I am the same girl who went to India 

And never always wants to go back.  

I am you. 

You are me.  

Because if we don't see soul in one another, 

We don't see each other as souls.  

I've seen soul in what you've written, 

in what you've seen.  

The question seems to be,

Have you seen mine?

Hung out to dry in the wind with 

Clothesline pins and developing film, 

With the name Gentry White stitched lightly onto the corner of every sheet?

Simran and I in India.