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Late at night it is. Everything is silent yet some restlessness can be felt. Insects perform their nightly symphony and I wave a calm, serene goodbye, like the ones that want to settle rightfulness in the world but in the very end fail to despair. The sky is dark, spotted with tiny pearls that we humans call stars, the very objects of awe in so many of us. But the stars are not important now to him, he concentrates, or at least tries to, in the yellowish paper with burnt edges that has just been handed him. He walks downhill, tumbling with the roots of the centennial, wise trees that appear suddenly like forcing one to stay or stray back. The very same trees that insist on guarding this house that serves as a castle for the princess and the dragon.
That night kept no words between the boy and me. We were usually very fluent, enjoying and sharing so many ideas and emotions, yet, tonight it seemed that there was no need to talk, no wanting at all. I knew deep down these dress and this coat and these ribbons I’m forced to wear, deep inside this skin of caramel that is licked by the devil and kissed by the prince, that no matter the words that could have sprouted from my lips, the problem would not have been solved. And in that light, it was just obvious I was to stay quiet. In the end, I am sure it was the best to do. All these years made me sure of my decision. All of them.
Tracing his footsteps again, I can see his silhouette vanishing and merging with the dark colours of the trees downhill. The serenade is slowly fading as well, I wonder if he’s taking it with him, or if it is something else. Deep down maybe, I know the truth. His steps are slow and barely audible among the midnight symphony. My mind wanders off to other days, days in which the sun pierced the trees, days in which we would take a stroll together, walking side by side, never really touching, but all over each other.
If there was something I knew; if there is something I know, is that he was never a man of speaking many colourful words, nor a man of intricate actions. And although at moments regret washed over me, with time I discovered he was indeed filled to the very tip of his golden curls with thoughts and emotions. The very ingredients of the most beautiful sonnets I could have ever read.
My husband now waits for me in the bedroom, but I direct my footsteps to the studio. Where I lock myself and sit on the desk, pulling out of the drawer more paper to pour my thoughts and emotions. But maybe this time I won’t wait until they become yellowish to hand those to their proper owner with the words harboured inside.
March 31, 2009 (Final edit: Jan 30, 2010)
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