Sunday, August 28, 2005

Camille’s mother

I’ll have a coffee, I say. The silent stream of water, the unobtrusive sound of birds and nearby traffic far away. I hear the fire burning, the rustle of wood. I see no signs of smoke. This is not a good day for losing somebody. Mawkish music comes from the hill, the riverside covered with stories to tell. I walk too fast? I say. There is no danger, no villain in the darkness. No lie. This is the track I was looking for. The fire is digging under my skin, resting there. When I look back the path, I see no blades of grass trampled underfoot, no footprints.

Sunday, August 21, 2005

Passing car

The girl turned her head and looked at me. It was raining, the grey color of the clouds swallowed the morning sky, the city of Berlin. Cars drowsily waiting at the traffic lights. Gears shifting, brakes howling, wheels accelerating. I barely noticed the dark blue van passing on my left. She may have been 8 or 9 years old. A child sitting in the front passenger's seat, her face behind the pane. She twisted her head and looked at me again, catching my eyes. A long silent look within the immortality of a second, close and knowing and nameless.

Cuadros de familia (1)

I still remember the tubes meandering out of him in the desperation of the ICU. He would be dead in a jiffy, doctors said. Ten years later, I see my father standing at the door, resting on his walking stick, thoroughly shaping words like gems, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. A fascinating puzzle of will and faith caged in a paralyzed body.