A HAND IN THE FOG

XXII

It was afternoon.

She just came back from her hard job. All home was in silence. And she was mute.

Maybe for all her life she was mute and in silence – of course until the concert’s evening.

She began to organize her next day while waited for his call. Every night he called her. She was there listening music and just waiting for him. She loved this.

Separating clothes and papers she remembered the evening in the park – when she saw his hand disappearing in the fog. She remembered the book. She remembered the first time she saw his landscape.

She didn’t know if the Life is constructed by metaphors or if the metaphors construct the Life. Not an existential problem, but a no-solution problem. It doesn’t matter if one or another situation happened in fact – if someone thought – it was happened.

So much time has passed since their last meeting.

She remembered how was difficult to come back. Say goodbye to him it was one of the most cruel moments that she had to live. But she made a big effort to be – or to seem – strong. He hugged her also sad and almost ordered – do not make any effort to pretend be strong – I know exactly what you are feeling.

He was sure.

She began to remember the trip when they were sat at the airport. Remember sometimes helps – because put the Present cloudy. She learned this when she said goodbye to the dark blue sea and thanked also it companion. Gratefully. But in that moment she needed really for help. Memories. Smells. Photos.

They were hugged and in front of the board way – he kissed her. And she went to the plane.  Remembering that hard moment – alone – she suffered with the same pain of that moment when they said farewell. Before cross the corner – she looked back. He was there saying goodbye. A kiss.

And her first poem came back inside his mind – again.

I cry for your absent hands/ I cry for your present back/ I cry for the clothes on the hanger/ useless and meager/ I feel the warmth of the tear/ that run down calm/ disguised/ slow. I cry to know I am.

The truth was in the last line.

At this time she thought in that poem by the end to the beginning.

I cry to know I am / disguised slow / that run down calm / I feel the warmth of the tear / useless and meager / I cry for the clothes on the hanger / I cry for your present back / I cry for your absent hands.

The truth was in the last line.

The volcano. The dark blue sea. The cockroach. Each detail had a space in her memories. His shirt hanged on a bC ruins after washed because of an act of a pigeon. Her smiles and laughs. His jokes. His smiles. His decided style to cross the streets. His elegant style in the restaurants. They lost on the maze road.

During fifteen days she had to decide nothing. For the first time in her life she had absolutely all the confidence in a Man.
He decided all really perfect. He decided all that he knew she would love and celebrate. Above all – or below all – he knew her deeply.

She knew him discreetly. She decoded him – but of course didn’t want to be invasive. She knew that he hated be questioned or pushed against a wall. He appreciated the noise when the noise did not disturb. She smiled. This was his right description: personal philosophy.

A part of him was in silence inside himself – and he just broke the silence or perhaps the muteness when he felt that could share. She enjoyed and loved his elegant way and style.

One morning he made one of his jokes. Please – can you write my biography – it would be sensational – I would be described as a perfect person.

And she answered so calm – but you are perfect person. And both laughed. The morning began – as she usual said when they were together. All the mornings woke up with smiles and smells.

For days and weeks – after came back to her routine – she felt some different – as she was not landed. She was there. Or better – she knew she was not there – she wanted to be there. And the line of the desire and the reality seemed be deleted. Or clouded. And she understood the true meaning of missing – or the true meaning of distance. A confused sensation that made her feels as in a limbic space.

For days and weeks when she walked she looked at her feet to understand the space – to understand the place. She went on trying to be strong and to live the Present – as the Present needed to be lived.

And it was – at that time – the feet that made her come back inside her again. Once a long time ago – she recorded – that were the arms that made this same job. But it was a Past of the Past – a long time ago.

So it is true – the body sometimes helps the mind. She concluded and blinked to her image at the mirror in front of the place she used to talk with him. Va bene. She wrote a short message to him – the words and the numbers are similar when the account is correct.

Suddenly she heard the recognized noise. She jumped fast – It was he calling her. She smiled happy looking at her feet – and landed – for a while.

Outside the window – it was dark. The night became to close the day and the memories. And they became to talk as the Geography was nothing. Nine thousands, nine hundreds and forty-three kilometers were cloudy – for a while.

Thank you Universe.

But – the Future sometimes can be myopic but never blind.

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