November 10th, 2012
She will be warmer and shorter and will rise on her tiptoes to tell me in my ear why I can’t find a pair. Of socks, of course, because socks are the kind of things that turn me upside down when I get bored of the same face, or rather, make me lose myself and find myself again in piles of other socks, toys, papers, people, or ways to change my mind.
Her eyes will be even browner, like the land I miss so much, and, returned from my hug, it would seem to me that she blinked to drive away her tears, across the sea. A wave of green will move my thought then to the great journey across the Atlantic, which I have planned since last spring and is now over.
She will be warmer and shorter and will rise on her tiptoes to tell me in my ear why I can’t find a pair. Of socks, of course, because socks are the kind of things that turn me upside down when I get bored of the same face, or rather, make me lose myself and find myself again in piles of other socks, toys, papers, people, or ways to change my mind.
Her eyes will be even browner, like the land I miss so much, and, returned from my hug, it would seem to me that she blinked to drive away her tears, across the sea. A wave of green will move my thought then to the great journey across the Atlantic, which I have planned since last spring and is now over.
She will be surprised to see me again, as she was not since she gave birth to this girl who meets her every September, blonder and blonder (even if her hair is brown) with every ray on sun gathered from every sunset in the West she came back from, this November.
She will be beautiful, more beautiful than the sunset in July, in Eforie Nord, when the sea was hunting me from under its rocks. It was crushing the waves as if it wanted to move the banks; the same banks on which you, young me from 17 years ago, smiled with the clouds, with the wallows, with your years that you’d want to sit down with you and say: “Thank you that you’re doing to me what the farthest from my voices feels.”
She will be “mom”, who doesn’t taste salty, or hasn’t swimming fish to carry, or shellfish to dance, or me to cure. She will be just “mom”, from whom I drank the breast milk of a dreamer, of a fighter with strong legs, thirsty to weave memories.
She will be my parent, child like the sun when she plays with the thought of me not wanting to ever go away again. She will be “mom”, waiting impatiently, just like the characters that are waiting in my mind to tell her about them.
She will be beautiful, more beautiful than the sunset in July, in Eforie Nord, when the sea was hunting me from under its rocks. It was crushing the waves as if it wanted to move the banks; the same banks on which you, young me from 17 years ago, smiled with the clouds, with the wallows, with your years that you’d want to sit down with you and say: “Thank you that you’re doing to me what the farthest from my voices feels.”
She will be “mom”, who doesn’t taste salty, or hasn’t swimming fish to carry, or shellfish to dance, or me to cure. She will be just “mom”, from whom I drank the breast milk of a dreamer, of a fighter with strong legs, thirsty to weave memories.
She will be my parent, child like the sun when she plays with the thought of me not wanting to ever go away again. She will be “mom”, waiting impatiently, just like the characters that are waiting in my mind to tell her about them.
I must not forget anyone who turned me in the person I am today, when I'll see my mother again.
Daniela
Daniela
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