By Micah Marie F. Naadat
In Korea, they say, saudade. It means a happiness that has passed, or perhaps, never even existed. It cannot exactly be translated into the English language, but others equate it to the feeling of nostalgia.
I’d like to think of Father Time, a respectable creature of the vastness of space and fragile tenderness, as a friend of nostalgia. When we try to remember something from the past, an essential quality of it is lost forever. But that does not mean that the sharpness of it all was not real—only that time, Father Time who has a way of passing both dully and remarkably, can now hold us gently, unlike how he was once unable to. But no matter how much the mind may want to forget, the heart persists, with a memory all on its own.
For the young, innocent children of the universe, time is the peaceful, endless days of summer. For the heartbroken, time is the soft melting of a pocket watch, demonstrating a collapse of cosmic order. For the wanting, time is the limitless stretch of the ocean between two lovers from opposite ends of the world. But while time may pass differently for everyone, our griefs all sound the same, echoing the deep tumultuous throbbing of our wildly intertwined hearts.
I notice the passing of time because of the absence of a hand I can no longer hold, and eyes I can no longer look at. Sometimes, I’m surprised to find ruins, where there was once, love. Tenderness is there no longer–just a vague reminder that once, there was. In the stillness of the comings and goings, I ask myself—How can we forgive ourselves for all the things we did not become? Maybe we will never really know, but only time can tell.
THE BARRISTER 