terça-feira, 17 de maio de 2011

when she left him

Did it ever occur to you that maybe this is the real me? You don´t even look at me, do you? And when you do decide to glance my way, what you see is a bizarre version of me. Someone I´m not, someone I don´t want to be.

Why are you still with me? You don´t love me? You don´t understand me? You don´t even want me….

Yet, you won´t set me free. So the only way I can be free of you, is if I leave.

Good Bye Jonathan, I am gone now, for good.

 Don´t look for me. I don´t need you and you don´t need me.

Once upon a time, with love

And just like that, she had left him. Now he was all alone in the world. Did she really think he had never loved her? He would have moved mountains for her, he would sing her favorite songs, just because he asked her too… Now how did she believe he could live without her?

Maybe he had, in fact, been blind. He should have paid more attention, listened more. But he always thought that she knew he was a bit oblivious to everything around him.

Jonathan left the open letter over the kitchen table. Then now empty house felt cold, the kitchen had lost its liveliness, its color. The sound of the television seemed to usurp the silence. She had taken her favorite flower with her, it made sense for she could not live without pink roses.

One by one, he closed the windows, the lights on the street seemed to hunt him. “Could she be hiding there - somewhere in the shadows? No, she´d be long gone, by now”. The last stream of light coming from outside was now gone, television off, lights down, he was surrounded by darkness.

What had made her leave? He wondered… What had he done? What had they done? He wished there had been warning,… But there had been, so many warnings, he was the one that had been blind, blind to all, blind to her, blind to the sadness that filled their hearts. He needs her, he had always needed her, but he had never shown her just how much, he had never been there when she needed him. So perhaps it had been his fault, perhaps it had been their fault.

Seating on her favorite spot, by the sofa, he noticed the emptied bookshelves, no more woman authors organized by last name, no more pink markers or flowery arrangements. He had complained about them, now they were so normal to him, he missed them dearly. For she was him, and he was her, and everything he like she liked, even if she didn´t; and he liked everything she like, even if he didn´t. This is how they were.

But now she was gone, and he could not understand why… and he had to let her go.

quarta-feira, 11 de maio de 2011

terça-feira, 10 de maio de 2011

While I wait for sleep

As I lay in bed, half closed eyes, hoping sleep would arrive soon, I remembered that I no longer had something to look forward to in the morning.

The children had all left (they were no longer children) and the house felt empty, no noises into the night, no crying baby I had to run to. The comfort of the frequent presence of steps running around no longer exists.

What could I do now but read a novel with a cup of tea in my hands and hope for a phone call. Maybe soon I´d have grand-children, maybe they would visit in the summer and I would have once again the beautiful sound of children playing in the yards. But no, I did not hope for such. Even if my children were to have children, would I still be here to meet them? Or would the emptiness fill me so that by then I would no longer be myself?

Sleep is finally arriving, and my eyelids are finally surrendering to the darkness of the night. Good night, I whisper to the silence.

Another day, filled with nothingness. No news today. My reading progressed as time seemed to stand by. Is this all I can offer the world now? No, I know it is not? Perhaps I could write? Put into words the thoughts my mind never stops to make and follow the advice of Virginia Woolf, did she not encourage woman to write? So I will follow the grand writer, and I shall do as she said… I shall write…

Another day, another night. I tried to follow my determination of writing today. Easier said than done, I believe. At least I tried. The emptiness still surrounds me, but writing makes me feel better, perhaps it is the solution, perhaps it is not.

A full day of writing. Jane Austen would be proud for I do not have to hide what I write, as she did. No news from the children. Loneliness attacks at night, once again. Why is the silence of the night so silent? Where are the fairies that should be dancing away in the garden? The ones we used to see as children? The ones we dream of and create tales about? Where is the Fairy Godmother that will save us all and take us to our beloved prince?

“Good night, Fairy Godmother, I know you hide in the shadows, and look after the young children with special ardor, I only ask that you don´t forget the old, as we too need magic, and light, and hope”.

Have they forgotten, as I have forgotten myself? Another long day and no news of my children. The house feels even emptier as I walk their rooms. I wonder where they are, if they are happy.  As I put my beloved cup of tea down (the one I got for mother´s day, so many years past), a tear rolls from my face. I am tired of this lowliness. My family is no longer mine, they have their own family. I am now a distant relation to go visit and call during festive days. I have no more purpose, no more reason. I must sleep, tomorrow will be a new day.

Another day, no news, I keep writing, keep living… News will come, I am sure.

“Fairy Godmother, where are you? There, there you are!”.