Julia (15) 4.4.13


Day 4

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The mist is hanging in the base of the mountains this morning. The early sun rises above and behind them, darkening the roof tops and definition has been lost.

I couldn’t sleep my mind so stimulated by this city and the schizophrenic nature of the previous day.

One moment we sat in companionably ease, the sun warming our skin, the dulled sounds of life way below the roof top on which we sit.

Next we found old documents amongst your papers in England, and with your cousin in the coolness of her balcony, we were later lost to an ancestral world touched upon by you, that now transports her back to grateful, but painful memories of family loss, and civil war.

Then the time passed without notice and so we raced towards the cemetery as your cousin feared that it would close at 5pm. It is now 4.30pm. “Los scentos” is uttered as she jumped the red traffic lights.

I remembered with clarity unaltered where your tomb was.

My legs inwardly trembled as I approached and the warmth of the marble surprised me. I had imagined it cold.

Silence was vital; the connection between us tangible if I closed my eyes and breathed it in.

Tracing the letters of you and your mothers’ names with my finger the two years had bought a slight fade to the brilliant white they had.

It softened the starkness of their message.

Acutely I was drawn to the ages carved after the names of you and your ancestors. “DE 55 ANOS”.  “DE 65 ANOS” ” DE 92 ANOS”  “DE 72ANOS”

You were by far the youngest.

A cleaning truck made its way between the tombs, broke through my wanderings and drops of rain spotted the dust.

Your “landlady” played her clarinet again for you; the strangled few notes reminiscent of her emotions too, during your funeral, and now.

Laughter at this distant connection brought us to the present, and your presence here has invited your cousin into a place she rarely chooses to visit.

Still you affect and bring people into shared spaces that you tried to keep so separate.

The noise, smells and visual stimulation of the “flower day” festival packed full the remaining space in my mind, and leaked throughout the night.

I am grateful to this early morning peace and reverie.

About Author: Julia

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