Becoming

“Come to me, please. Come to me. Please, be coming.” I picked up a book from the thick pile of old books in the flea market. Why I chose this particular one to look at I did not know— maybe it was because of the hardcover, with the binding almost broken, and the gilding worn out. I always had a sentiment for old things. I longed for the golden age and was nostalgic for an era I was too young to have lived. I opened the book, and was somehow overwhelmed by the old German typeface—almost, illegible. As I was trying to decipher the genre of the book, a note fell off.

“Come to me, please. Come to me. Please, be coming.” For some reason it was written in English with a thin, spider-like handwriting. I immediately had this typical confined woman image in my head—sick, delicate woman-of-letters, sitting by the window in an attic. Daily recreation: looking over the marketplace and imagine herself to be part of the hustle and bustle. 


But to whom was she addressing? I could feel the intensity of her pining. In German there is this fine term Sehnsucht. I could feel her Sehnsucht by her use of present progressive to indicate future. It levels up the certainty. Her addressee would not only come but also be coming. Possibility ascertained. Appointment made. Promise pledged.

I did not know what become of her, or them. I just picked up this old book in a flea market and this old note fell off. I did not know if the addressee eventually received the note and kept it safe in memory of their union, or the note, sadly undelivered, simply stayed unread in this old book, a hopeless dead letter center, only to be discovered by a visitor in a transient flea market decades and decades after.

I shuddered at my thought of the second possibility. Ah, humanity!

***

indebted to:

Herman Melville, Bartleby, the Scrivener