Sky high in the airwaves

Hernan hasn't been around for over a week. I know it gets to mother because she doesn't play her Beatles songs anymore, like she does when she's happy.

Sunday I wake up from a violent dream. From downstairs I hear Shostakovich's Nocturne playing on the stereo. I go down in my nightgown and see her crying, an empty bottle of Chateau Margaux on the Persian carpet. Do you love me, she asks as I sit down next to her on the sofa. Of course I say. I'm a terrible liar but I can't say I love you because I have to when she looks this frail, like a little bird or a butterfly. Her hand in mine like a cold porcelain doll's.

Outside a warm wind pushes through the garden carefully, as if it lacked momentum, as if something was missing. Our flowers are slowly withering.