The Month Of Pearl

My beloved Andrew,

I found the guts to write you this letter only now, such a long time away. But I won’t give you this letter in your hands, no; neither a postman will. I’ll entrust it to the fire, which flames will raise towards you and bring these words in their curls of smoke. You won’t ever read these lines with your pretty eyes because, many years ago, you declared to yourself that kicking that enemy of the nation’s ass was right; what the hell am I saying? It was mandatory! That moment on, everything collapsed into an oblivion of pride and stubbornness which only a bullet managed to pull you out of.

Mom’s supplications, dad’s heavy silence, your elder sister’s endless crying, your little brother’s distressed impossibility to understand have been totally useless… he held your shirt and pulled, pulled, pulled it strongly to take you back at his age so that you could not leave. When you knocked my room’s door, the moment in which you turned the handle has been the last one. The last one of an era in my life, in your life, of your family and friends’ lives. Of an era of your still not born baby. He knew nothing, either to subsist or to be alive, yet he had already lived his dad’s farewell.

This war between our marriage. This war in the way, spanner in the works of the people who waged it, fight it and undergoes it. I was already about to flood you with a thousand questions about the flowers for the church, the maids of honour, the special menu for the children… a river torn and wounded by a dam built out of male chauvinism and false ideals.

One glance has been enough to freeze my blood up, seven words to hold all oxygen in my lungs: “do you really mean to do this?”. One syllable crashed me into a whirlpool of anguish while my heart was going mad, my hands gropingly searched for a chair, the new life inside me pulsed and pulsed just while I was looking at your flame choking in a light breeze. Like a burning ocean of little candles, roaring frightful and terrific first, then just a mound of wax wet by blood-red streams, exhausted wicks blow out too early. You are among the unrecognizable candles too, you who gave life just as you’re taking it away now. While you take it away from other people, you also steal it to your own self, because you’re not God. It’s not you who instilled life into your child, it’s not you who can save yours by taking it away to innocent wearing uniforms or civil clothes. Because real blameworthy people are not among them. And I am not guilty too, neither your baby, your family; in spite of this, you dedicate us the most cruel torture and the heavy blow who leaves only suffering and regret harmless.

How many times you told me “I love you” and it truly came from the deepest of your heart; love me then to the bottom, at least from up there, from the clouds where you play hide-and-seek with your child who walks with goofy treads pointing at you in the sky. But you’re not loyal, you never let him win, you are always veiled by humidity that sometimes condense and comes back to us, the drops of you streaming in your child’s blood. Together we survived a lot of winters, discovering each other again at every spring dawn. Despite the stiflingly hot day, wrapped and slippery in their heavy dark uniforms, from the officers’ mouths raged out a snow and ice tempest, a sucked by a black hole pale sun which threw its last rays to apologize. Not only for the people you condemned to your same end, but also for your baby’s half future.

I feel you while I caress him, while every single thing silently and ineluctably drifts away heading for my very last breath that will eventually rejoin us. But none of this is enough. Without your safe arms which embrace me, without your voice, your hands, your lips, many nights I find myself getting my pillow wet of little but penetrating teardrops. Each of them digs a crater inside me that can’t be filled up by anyone but you.

You who will came back any more. 



copyright Eleonora Pizzi 2007

Categories: Short Stories | Leave a comment

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