A City That Remembers Every Crack

I have learned not to interrupt.

I was standing long before you learned to measure time in deadlines. When you live as long as I have, interruption actually feels childish. I watch instead. I listen. I collect moments,  the way dust gets collected on windowsill, all quietly, patiently and without complaints.  You pace fast through me, measuring life in deadlines and detours, convinced that speed is the same as progress. I let you believe that.

You think I forget.

I bet, you assume memory fades as the dust settles and the noise fades. But memory doesn’t need announcements, it settles into me slowly through walls into roads, into small cracks you step over without looking at me. When you see, you call them imperfections. I call them records. I call them memories that refused to stay hidden. I call those cracks as diaries written without ink. I remember them as the ignored conversations. I call them scars.

You admire me for being long lived, silent , strong and take pride in standing tall, but you left me behind with emotional and social burdens. You come and go, I stay. I stay alive. I have got scars all over me. 

Every crack has a story. Some were born from shaking ground. Others from shaking decisions. A few from simple neglect ; that didn’t feel dangerous but later turned out to be the most painful longlasting ones. I don’t judge which is worse. I remember them all.

You love beginnings. You cherish them. You cut cakes. You cut ribbons, take photographs and walk away satisfied believing creation is the end of responsibility. Maintenance bores you a lot. Care feels invisible. I am amused by your arrogance. By time, I have learned this about you, the way one learns the habits of a loved one who never changes!

 I don’t need you to build more. I need you to notice. I was never extraordinary to ask for attention. I never reached for the sky or demanded admiration. I simply stayed where I was placed.  I did all the tasks I was asked to do all on time perfectly. But, day by day, you crossed me carrying your groceries, grief, laughter, silence, but have you never thought about medicines for my uncovered scars?  I spoke through the doors, shattered through the walls, tore apart through the beams, teared through the broken tyres, squeaked through windows but you never listened.

Trust came easily.
Trust always does, when something works long enough.
I learned to listen more than you realized. I, every now and then,  felt the rhythm of your footsteps, the weight of your routines and the confidence with which you assumed I would always be there. I felt pride once, long long ago when I was new, when your hands carefully shaped me. Then you walked away believing your job was finished.

Time had corrected my belief. Everytime, I notice the change before you do. I began to deliver more than I received. Slowly, small signs appeared, those weren’t dramatic and urgent anymore then. Those were the quiet requests to be seen. But you know, silence is dangerous when misunderstood as strength.
You were busy. I do understand. You always are.

Long later, you gathered confused, searching for a single moment to blame,  questioning about my incurable scars. 

I wanted to tell you that this had not happened all of a sudden. I had been speaking about this softly for a long period of time.The cracks are those conversations you chose not to hear.

What hurts the most is not the failure.
It is the disbelief.
As if trust alone could replace care.
As if silent meant consent.

Beginnings comfort you. They make you feel forgiven. I believe you will stand proudly again, relieved by the feeling of starting over.

I remember every ignorance and every warning you softened with confidence. I carry what you leave behind, the lessons you promise to learn next time.

You call me many things now after being rebuilt.
Developed. Modern. Smart.
You rarely ask how I feel.

I am not angry. I am simply old enough to realize that the tragedy was never that I spoke. The tragedy is that I had to.

And if you listen, please really listen, you will hear that “the old city” is still speaking.

Feel free to leave a thought. Completely anonymous.