It sits at the very back, like a forgotten appendix. No page number. Because we never turned to that page. But the index lists it anyway, in faint, ghostly type: Love. See: Hum Tum.
It is written as a lyrical, reflective prose poem or a personal essay, playing on the double meaning of “index” (a list/guide, or a pointer/finger). 1. The first letter. You wrote it on a torn page from a notebook meant for physics diagrams. I still have it. The ink has smudged, turning the ‘h’ in hum into a ghost. It was the index finger pointing toward possibility: You. Me. Maybe. Index Of Hum Tum
A classic entry. Page twenty-three of our internal lexicon. You said rain was a melancholy of the sky; I said it was a celebration of the earth. We didn’t speak for three hours. Then you pulled me outside, and we stood getting soaked until we forgot who was right. The index here is not a word, but a wet sleeve touching a wet sleeve. It sits at the very back, like a forgotten appendix
You looking away from the lens. Me looking at you looking away. It’s the most honest thing we ever made. The index classifies it under: Truth. But the index lists it anyway, in faint, ghostly type: Love
An index is supposed to be orderly. Alphabetical. Clinical. But Hum and Tum — Us and You —refuse to be sorted. They bleed across the columns. They refer the reader to every page, and to no page at all.