Bygone

I

The weather, I remember clearly. The events of the day and its many little, insignificant details I can also recall with ease. The aroma of the air, and its curious heaviness that day; a warmth spreading across my face...this has all been tattooed into my mind. His face is the only memory I cannot conjure, the missing piece of this puzzle in my mind that will not cease torturing me until it is complete. However, I can remember his hair; a gorgeous mane of stunningly golden locks that seemed to be as soft as silk and as fluid as water. This memory is what I cling to - this one, golden strand of hope that pulls me along as a lead to a horse. And I shall follow it wherever it may draw me.

My town was of average size, and its people of equally average temperament. Its location was not too far nor too close to the center of the city, and its architecture and amenities were remarkably ordinary. In rare instances when I would find myself speaking to city folk regarding my hometown, they certainly knew of it, but could never recall exactly where it was located, let alone any meaningful contributions it had made to our society. I was never surprised; at times, it seemed that we were nameless, forgotten by the city and the people who lived there. I had never been bothered much by this and quietly accepted the fact that I was a nameless person from a nameless town.

However dreary this may sound, I was happy. This monotony allowed for a peaceful and non-eventful life, one I was extremely grateful for. My mother and father, along with the rest of the people in my town, were quiet and agreeable. There were hardly ever any arguments between family, friends, neighbors or even strangers. If there were, they would be resolved over a cup of tea quietly and privately. Any inconvenience, be it large or small, would be resolved by the next day; it seemed that in our town, the struggles of a day were forgotten with the arrival of the next.

My house was small and modest, but had everything that one would need to live comfortably. The first floor was used for my parent's shop, where I helped my father and mother with their work three days a week. Another three days were used attending to the housework, running errands and the like. Each week I was allotted one day where I was permitted to do what I pleased and spend some of the pocket change I had earned throughout the week. Perhaps I could have spent this time developing a skill, such as learning an instrument, painting or practicing a sport. However, I learned early on that one was too loud, the other too expensive and the latter too strenuous, according to my parents. As a result, I spent these days grabbing my book of fairy-tales, purchasing a croissant from the baker and making my way up a grassy hill that bordered the edge of my town. I would ascend the gentle slope, and, once reaching the peak, lie down atop the patchy, yellow-green grass. My town never did get much rain or sun; the clouds seemed to be like ink on paper, permanently stained onto the sky above us. Lying there, slightly uncomfortable, I would watch the grey, never-ending blanket of clouds while dining on my meal, being careful not to spill crumbs onto the only loungewear that I owned; a loose, white sailor shirt and a pair of grey linen trousers that my mother had gifted me for my birthday. I would dream of life beyond my town, where every day brought a new adventure and a prince would sweep me off my feet, just like in the fairytales that I read every week-end, over and over again. However, I was always aware that my life was destined to begin and end in that town, and I was content.

My town was not deep enough in the country to celebrate the harvest, nor involved enough in the city to be swept up in the latest trends brought over from neighboring countries. As such, the lottery was the biggest event of the year; I remember as a little girl, I would walk quickly down to the gates leading to the road that led out of town to watch the ticket-vendor arrive in his small white buggy to set up shop in the middle of town. Of course, no one in my town ever expected to win; the novelty of a new face in town as well as the excitement of buying the tickets were more than enough to sate our interest in the world outside for the year. In earlier years, the younger girls would always approach the ticket-vendor; if he was young and attractive, to ogle at him and if he was older, to ask him about life in the city. I myself never spoke to the vendor apart from conventional ticket-selling conversation. As I was friendly with the younger girls, they would always come rushing to me after their encounter with the ticket-vendor to either gush about his appearance: