Tears and a River

 

My favorite grandfather died when I was nine. He was a gambler and a big child. Ostracized by the grown ups of the house, he was a star among the children. We used to jump to his bed to play cards with him. The main attraction of the game used to be the moment of learning how to cheat.

 

Because we suffered so much with his death, my mother stipulated that attending funerals or going to cemeteries was unsuitable for children. I don’t know about my sister, but I kept religiously her will up to now.

 

Days ago I visited a sunny cemetery stopping near a simple white tomb. Beneath that rectangle of stone and soil sleeps one of the kindest men I had the pleasure to know. I couldn’t cry for him. I stood there remembering how nice he was and how he used to welcome me when he was alive. His warmth, support and friendship are things that I’ve lost forever.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“Couldn’t you have a family house in Paris, Rio or New York?”

 

The protest came from my brother-in-law, joking about the countless times he had to drive us to the remote place where my grandfather built his house. My brother-in-law and Andy are the best drivers I know. They can drive for days, crossing a country the same way some of us cross a street. So I knew he was joking.

 

“This is a no man land!” he exclaimed in horror.

 

“Where would you build your house if running from war, revolts and assassinations?” I essayed as an explanation.

 

That place was my grandfather refuge, my mother quest and our dreamland. It was sold years ago. Today, nothing is left of what it was. Today, I cannot breathe where I used to play as a child. What once was only exists in my mind.

 

There I visited a second cemetery where most of my family rests, coffins on top of coffins. Under the protective walls of a castle and behind the glass of a box, just like I remember in the Sleeping Beauty tale, someone sleeps in peace. But I was there for a reason. I had a plan. I wanted to ask that someone’s protection. The strength to go on living somehow happy… The perfect love… The dreamed treasure… However, I could only remember how I love that someone. How I miss that someone. Instead of asking, I cried. Tears not planed. And I understood why my Old Poet wrote on the marble:

For whom do you cry, my love, for me?

Don’t cry for me, my sweet, not that way.

You know that I don’t deserve so much

And that your tears are seeds planted

Not harvested

Believe me, and you feel that

I deserve less, a lot less

Than your immense, desolate tears…

Advertisements