Saturday, January 07, 2012

Six Days in 88 years

New Year's Day.

A man, his elbows leaning on kitchen's sill;
his head resting in his palms;
himself: lost in thought;
in many thoughts ...

Suddenly his eyes notice:
A woman in a wheel chair.
Pushed by a man.
Walking fast.
Escorted by a an Australian shephard.
Behind this trio:
A couple in their 30s.
She: pregnant in the 36th week, leading a 14 years old mongrel, somehow a mixture of a Romanian Mioritic Shepherd Dog and an Irish Wolfhound.
He: Leading another Australian shephard.
Both, respectively the four of them:
Walking fast, too.
Somehow too fast.
As if running away, trying to escape.

Trying to escape what?

Like a procession. Somehow surreal. Described by García Márques or Borges.

The man does not dare to move.
Hoping brother-in-law, niece and her husband will not look up and ...

think: bloody voyeur.

January 6th.:

The 62nd anniversary of the old woman's marriage.
Oh, how does she love him; him who died almost 12 years ago.
They will never understand.
A 16 year old girl in love with a 20 year old boy who soon will be forced to fight a war.

waiting for him: ten years lost!
Their youth!

She had loved her son's girl from the first moment.

Why will she not be allowed to hold her grandchild in her arms?
Nine months.
Nine months ago it began.
Pain in the back.

She? She who four months ago has thought she'd not see her great-grandchild now, after she has got this pacemaker will – probably – not only have to follow the coffin of her daughter (-in-law), but about two weeks later hold her (the daughter's) grandchild in her arms.

'Life's not fair', the old woman says.

The man, his elbows leaning on the kitchen table,
his head resting in his palms,
does nod. Imperceptible. Almost.

'However, love, mother ...'
It is not exactly to understand what he murmurs.


  1. "Life's not fair....", this other old woman says.

    With tears, profound sadness, much anger, tiredness, and forced acceptance.

    I'm so, so sorry, for all of you, (but even more for the grandmother and the newborn child) that what should have been a moment of exultant joy became a moment of deep loss.

    You are in my heart and thoughts. Always.

  2. I can only echo Claude, Sean...

    Just too sad for words...

  3. My GOd Sean. Again Claude has said it better than I ever could.

  4. How tragic, it brings tears to my eyes.

    My thoughts are with you all.


  5. Life is unfair and often cruel in its impartiality.

    Peace to you and your family, Sean.

  6. Not fair and very tough sometimes, indeed often. But thankfully we can help each other sometimes, indeed often.

  7. Claude's words were beautiful. I'm so sorry, Sean.

  8. Oh, Sean, I am so sorry. Thinking of you here in Sicily. x

  9. Claude,
    merci de tout coeur.

    Bertus, Jams,
    thank you.
    Yes, on days like these words of third persons - even when being felt deep – do (often) sound shallow.
    At the same time Andrew is right: we can help eachother ... even when we think our words will sound hollow.

    thank you.
    it is, indeed, (kind of) tragic.
    Thank you for your good thoughts and the hugs.
    It is interesting how people do cope with their emotions, hm?
    Did you ever (try) hug(ging) a person and notice her/his back straightening?

    calling life impartial is a fitting characterisation.
    Thank you for your kind words.

    as mentioned above, friend: You are right. Thank you.

    thank you.

    grazie per la tua grandezza.