They - Yesterday

It is raining. A fine, cold drizzle which falls on the houses, the trees, the graves. When THEY come to see me, the rain streams down their fluid, distorted faces. THEY look at me and the cold becomes more intense, my white walls offer no protection. They have never protected me. Their solidity is nothing but an illusion and their whiteness is stained.

Yesterday, I had an unexpected, inexplicable moment of happiness. It came to me through the rain and mist, it smiled, floated above the trees, danced in front of me, surrounded me.

I recognized it.

It was the happiness of a time long ago when the child and I were one. I was he, I was only six and I dreamed in the garden at night as I looked at the moon.

Now I am tired. It is those that come at night who tire me this way? How many are there this evening? One? A group?

If only THEY had a face. But THEY are all vague and blurred. THEY come in. THEY stand there looking at me and THEY say:

“Why are you crying? Remember.”

“Remember what?”

They start laughing.

Later, I say:

“I’m ready.”

I open my shirt over my chest and THEY raise their pale, sad hands.

“Remember.”

“I can’t anymore.”

The pale, sad hands rise and fall. There is someone crying behind the white walls:

“Remember.”

A light, gray mist floated above the houses, above life. A child sat in the yard and looked at the moon.

He was six years old, I loved him.

“I love you,” I said to him.

And the child stared at me with a severe expression.

“Little boy, I have come from far away. Tell me, why do you look at the moon?”

“It isn’t the moon,” the child replied tetchily, “it isn’t the moon, it’s the future I’m looking at.”

“I come from there,” I said softly, “and there is nothing but dead, muddy fields.”

“You’re lying, you’re lying,” the child cried. “There is money, light, love. There are gardens full of flowers.”

“I come from there,” I repeated softly, “and there is nothing but dead, muddy fields.”

The child recognized me and started to cry.

They were his last warm tears. It started to rain on him too. The moon disappeared. The moon and the night have come to me to say:

“What have you done with him?”