A
True Story
Rolling
as I was, in a tube of perpetual movement, arrogance and heat
Half
standing half sitting, near the one who had nurtured me since birth,
Closer
to creation, closer to love, closer to my mother,
the
only god I know, that created me, no miracle, if only of life, that
lays in question since that day.
A
sudden and uncaring halt, a tensing of muscles,
A
cry from in front “Allez vous a la Rue Claire monsieur?!”
The
shriek of a crow, wearing it's funeral suit.
Turning,
clearly did I see her,
Frail,
Alone,
Sharp
and Alert,
In
control, in her mind, of her mind, of this moment.
Her
howling answered, annoyed look after annoyed look followed her to the
front of the carriage,
no
one saw my discreet helpings, a punching of tickets, a security pole
that she might not slip off,
The
seat, my mother gave her.
Who
are you, was my first question, but only my mind heard it, as it
heard my heart beating, as it, Perhaps, heard hers.
Her
pink dress, reminiscent of childish dreams, the flowers woven in,
reminiscent,
Of
when she could,
See
Them.
Words
escaped her, words of the past, that, in my close proximity to her,
stabilizing, sheltering,
heard
with all its force, all its truth.
As
such we talked, the bus passing all the landscapes that were so
familiar, so reassuring,
as
to be subdued by jealous society.
As
she pointed and smiled, “Finally a student!”, I gazed at her
whiskers, her white unwashed hair,
her
dry lips, her countenance forming the purest and most natural waves
of all,
Of
age.
Then,
I gazed into her eyes, where I saw who she was,
She
had loved, she had feared, and as she told me stories of war, I said,
“What
a story you tell me” and uncontrolled, replied “No no, a true
story”,
At
this, her life was full ,and had been but a fraction told, happy as
she was,
Pleased
as was I.
Looks
Had Gone From The Misery Of Life, To Seeings Its Wonder.
We
are here said I, your stop,
And
as I held her hand, I saw a small girl, as if in a dream,
Skipping
wearing a pink dress with flowers,
And
heard her heart yearn to be.
As
we walked down the clear road of time, she refused to stop,
And
as I was to leave, she pulled me down, close to her and said,
“Half
of me is dead, I was somewhere before, but now, I was supposed to
die”
And
she left, with the promise of a picture of Kennedy in Berlin, and of
life.
