Diary on How did I spend my last Sunday in lockdown?
Answers
Answer: Inside, I am stuck with my family. Watching your life slow down interminably makes you realize things you wouldn’t normally care to mull over.
My father sits down on the floor, hurling out loads of old things that were crammed inside forgotten cupboards. Quarantine, it seems, is a golden opportunity to dismiss the ancient and make room for the new. And so, he finds innumerable bills, paperwork, cards, photographs, mementos and a bunch of things ripe with the essence of my childhood and teenage years.
I scour through the things, and I come across a bulky white envelope, wrapped in cellophane. It contains small paper cards and tokens on which I had scribbled in my broken handwriting, which was yet to form fully. They are addressed to my parents—birthday messages, Christmas greetings, childish shenanigans, juvenile complaints, honest confessions and worldly representations of fatuous dreams.
I find other tokens too, addressed to me from my parents. What surprises me is that my seven-year-old-self was exchanging letters with her parents living under the same roof. Now, however, even though my confessions are far more worrisome, I do not find the voice or the words to express myself. Communication is the key to connecting with people, but what happens when the bridge is burnt?
Explanation: