Tuesday, August 30, 2011

A girl like you could use a break

Friday, as the hurricane sweeps in over New York City, I'm in my bed worrying about mother. I never do so the feeling surprises me, but I know I recognize it from somewhere. Maybe it's the idea of not knowing what you have until you lose it, that for all the times I've fantasized about her being out of my life I wouldn't really want it to happen.

I'm watching CNN when I remember one of those fights we had, some stupid argument over nothing at all, and her leaving for New York in a cloud of rage. I remember imagining a plane crash and the reporters on TV telling the story about the ungrateful daughter who lost her mother and would never be able to forgive herself for her part in it. The daughter that had asked for it to happen and then couldn't handle the consequences when it did.

And then, the sound of keys in the lock and mother's voice piercing through the silence. "Sweetie, I'm home" she shouts from the hallway. I don't think I've ever hugged her so truthfully.

Friday, August 19, 2011


I came to think of it just now, eleven I was, it had just happened. Mother tried to comfort me as I cried day and night, I failed to understand how she could be so calm. Everything was silence, as if no one had noticed a fallen star. It made me very angry.

Some day, it must have been a couple of weeks later, I suddenly felt the urge to dig into mother's closet. I buried myself in the soft fabrics, stopped breathing and pretended I was dead too. An hour went by, then two. Mother's voice calling my name from outside, I flipped through the shoe boxes and there it was, in the midst of Prada heaven; her diary.

Saturday, August 13, 2011

They were born and then they lived and then they died

Friday night after too many shots of tequila I fall in and out of sleep in mother's king-sized bed. Through the darkness I hear the silent breaths of a girl, her warm skin under silk sheets, little reflections of a distant light in her dark green eyes as she looks at me.

Laying next to her I try to encapsulate the feeling of touching her, but the only thing left in the morning is her smell on my fingertips. She's gone, I still see her in front of me, what she's wearing, her smile, but I've forgotten what her body felt like under my trembling hands.

All these things that end and that I try so hard to hold on to when deep inside I know it's no use. I wish I could get over the sadness.

Monday, August 8, 2011

Fear of the dark

It's when I fear the darkness the most that I realize it's never really dark here.


Going down to the silent dining room in the middle of the night I sometimes remember mother having friends over. They're all stuck in the early seventies, unable or unwilling to let go of the past. Over endless bottles of expensive wine they tell their stories again and again. How they used to live life to the fullest, being constantly on the road or on the run, sleeping in Hyde Park just to see some concert the next day. Always high, never fearful.

I envy them, thinking that my youth will never be like theirs, never as romantic like a true dream of freedom. I will never see the Beatles or the Stones in some club in London, I will never live in that era, and whatever I can do now will never be good enough, never as rebellious or real.

And in the morning, as I pass that same empty dining room it suddenly looks so sad. Stains on the table cloth like fading memories, broken glasses like a shattered image of the past. It's so quiet, and I think of mother's friend and their lost lives. All they have now is a clouded memory, no matter what they did then they're here now, older than me, closer to the end.

I still have my youth, and still, whatever I do with it I will grow old too, and all I will have left is a stain, a broken mirror, something that were and will never come back. It's slowly getting darker.

Friday, August 5, 2011

Live forever

Another week, another seven days that just pass by outside these prison walls. I hardly notice time when I'm alone, but the house still smells of oak and vanilla. Occasionally I put on one of mother's silk blouses and pretend I'm famous, but no one is there to see me so I undress again. From the balcony I can see all the work that has to be done in the garden, the work Hernan is supposed to do. I close the doors and the curtains behind me and concentrate on breathing.

The lush flowers in mother's bedroom window never die because they're made of plastic.