Melancholy

A strange interaction of the humors coursing through my veins today has brought me to a most melancholy mood, despite being so incredibly busy at work. I find myself saddened by uncontrollable flashbacks brought about by sweet smells, old songs, or short phrases said in passing. It is odd, I think, that I should be saddened by these, as many of the memories are of better, happier, freer times; but one has little power over the emotions emanating from memory, and I have none.

There is, for example, the sweet smell of coffee made with just a little too much cinnamon. That one is my Grandma’s—who wasn’t my grandmother but deserves the title more than any other woman. The one thing I remember most is the time in ’75 when it rained for a whole week and I couldn’t go out and play. She brought out a large pile of newspapers, and between eating cookies she had baked, and chatting, and playing, and doing nothing, we made paper boats of all sizes. When it stopped raining, we took them out and let them go in the river the street had become, watching the armada float away, across the channel to invade England. Ahhh! Happy times.

Then, there was Supertramp, singing some silly song from the early ‘80’s. I didn’t discover them until the ‘90’s, when my wife and I would play them in the sentra, non-stop, on the way to Laguna Beach, where we would spend the entire weekend and many weekdays through the summer after we got together, before the baby came. To this day, Supertramp smells salty, sunny, and warm—bright and lazy—peaceful.

Then, this guy from Vermont called and asked for help. Now, under normal circumstances, this would not have elicited a second thought. Customers often depend on our higher level of expertise to solve problems in their production process, even when they’re not directly related to our product, and we comply with every request very happily, as this ensures they’ll come back. Some people say good will doesn’t build a faithful clientele; I disagree. This particular problem was easy, in and of itself, but the urgency with which it needed to be resolved reminded me of the times when my classmates would rush to me, asking for assistance. It wasn’t that I was any smarter than any of them—half the time, it was just that I can type faster than most people—but that I would not let any problem overwhelm me: we would sit and calmly dissect the issue, work on a solution and present the best answer we could. For a moment, I was back in school, blank piece of paper in front of me, pencil in my hand, and a question floating in the air around my head, looking like a puzzle piece for the matching answer that might be on the verge of flying away (pardon the mixed metaphors). I think this is because I am a Sagittarius: the hunter always on the search of prey. Presented with a problem, I am happy again, finding a solution.

And now, I’ve won the raffle for the Dodgers tickets here at work, and four of us are going tomorrow—not really to see the Dodgers (they suck), but to hang out and drink a couple of beers in the cool relaxation of a wasted day. And I remembered the days when we went to watch the horse races, when I was little. It was so much fun because nothing else would happen that day. We’d get up in the morning and get ready, and we’d go and hang out, watching the races. And for a moment, I was a child again, laughing at my uncle’s Fiat Bambino.

And then the day is over and I shut down my computer and go home—another day’s over and another one’s coming, and I, I alone can see them coming and going and look at all the ones that came and went and know—again, forever—that sighs count more than breaths, though fewer.

How many times did you sigh today?