Monday, July 28, 2008
It's saturday morning. I'm standing in the kitchen opening a papaya melon for breakfast, reflecting the week. Gera's sister is gone for the weekend to prepare to sell at the flea market on Sunday: forecast 104 degrees. Humid. Throughout the week, she and I had conversations (in Spanish; unlike, Gera, she does not speak any English, whatsoever--I'm teaching her). Words that haulted our sharing of stories (words I could not translate): would ashes over. Words she taught me: amante (lover), I know "sancho" or "sancha" for this, cenizas. There were many others, but the communication was clear and coherent. The week passed ever so slow. We spoke extensively about our dead children.
Gera is sitting at the table preparing a sketch for an entertainment center he needs to build for a returning client. It will be a sinch, but he still underestimates the value of custom-made. I think. He walks past me in the kitchen, touches me firmly in a common place then takes a piece of papaya. We aren't talking very much this morning---it's like that whenever he is creating and I am a tad exhausted of speaking. In fact, today, we will each go to our separate little caves and surface around lunch time---chicken milanesa, salad, sopa, a glass of wine and a cold beer. He will disappear to his wood shop and I will finish reading a novel, knowing quite well I should be working on my own.
Favorite line from The Tenth Circle "The tears you shed over a child were not the same as any others. They burned your throat and your corneas. They left you blind."