Her memories are gone so on his every visit he makes new ones with her, knowing they will shine before they fade, fireworks through the fog.
memory
Her name would have been Stefka
My daughter’s name would have been Stefka. Stephanie or Stefania – we couldn’t agree – Francesca. Stefka. The k seemed pleasingly central European, when that was different and exotic. She would have been thirty today. Her name would have been Stefka.
Thirty. Me perhaps a grandad or maybe not – I would have been sure to say it did not matter either way, so long as she was happy. Now, knowing what I know now, I do not know what would have been best.
The sun was shining low on the horizon, just like a storybook sun. A twinge (is that the word?), then another. Quick! We need to go now! We piled into the car, the bag we had packed on the back seat, only twenty minutes to the hospital, I had measured it, we drove grinning and groaning and twinging. The sun shone low. Fifteen minutes later I drove across the junction.
Another two weeks later I woke up and Stefka and her mum were gone. As I learnt to walk again I leaned on the walker as I would lean on a pram and cried.
Thirty years and of course I still miss them, the one I had loved since I met her and the one I had loved since before she existed. Of course I do. People in this sort of story always do. But this is not a story. This is real life.
And that’s the thing about real life. There is no point to some stories. No point to the love, the creation, to the happiness and destruction.
So why am I telling you this? Why, today of all days? Because I can and I have to, even though there is no point. No point to the anger, the grief and denial.No point to it at all. But I can and I must, so I do.
Saved
invisible heart scars itch
the stitches saved time
I’m fine now
I’m fine
Nine
Jon looked down. His ring was missing from his hand. So was his finger. Then, with the pain, the memory flooded back.
Fade in…
Fade in to the music that plays in his head when he thinks of her. The chorus arrives then sticks sticks like old vinyl. Fade out.
The day before
In my mind it’s always the day before. The sun was sunny, the grass was green, you said ‘I love you’ and it didn’t sound strange.
Sound
A whisper in the silence is the only sound; and then is gone. Sal turns in his bed but there is no one there. Then he remembers.
Apricot, forget me not
Apricot
Forget me not
The empty cot
The killer robot.
Phrases that until today I never expected to see together.
One lives, one learns, one dies.
Strings
When the shaven-headed nun tied coloured strings around my wrist, I cried.
The strings stayed tied tight for months. Sometimes they tangled with my watchstrap. Sometimes, after rain or a bath, their dampness reminded me they were there.
One day it came to me that it would soon be time to take them off. I could do it any time, any place, but a need for pattern, for meaning, made me decide to wait until April 25th. Why then? Liberation Day in Italy. How is that relevant to strings around my wrist? It is not. But it is a date that is remembered, printed on the calendar in the same colour as one of the strings. The other was the yellow of Mediterranean daisies.
The morning of the 25th, still wet from the shower, I held out my arm and the strings were cut off. If I had had an open fire, I would have burnt them. They would have hissed and curled and disappeared in smoke and ash. But I did not have a fire, though it was cold that Liberation Day, so I dropped them in the bin.
I still think about them, and the sobbing. My arm still feels bare.
Many happy
Some or many years ago of course my mum was there. Nine months earlier and the man they called my father had been too. Now both are disappeared, one too soon before the other, and the counting of the years wears thin.
The best thing remain the candles – if you forget the jokes about the fire risk and the firemen and now the fire service. Each candle stands for a memory, a year that has passed or a friend, and calmly shines its light into the future. The more candles on the cake, the brighter the light they cast, the better they show us what is to come.
Though, through fear, we may not want to know. So we blow out the candles and pinch out the stubs and blow away the memories and shade out the light. The future is arriving fast enough; I do not want to see it.
simonsalento 