Walking Guide

 

Mrs. Maria, the Nuncio's sister, is in agony. So is Mr. Anthony Hale. And the many children. The pains cannot be removed by the good will of men, by going to the pharmacy, and the doctors say that it is a matter of time. The time of the black stain that will come, we do not know when, how or why, choosing our body to give the final blow. We want to cling to the age-old idea that, on the other side, an angel awaits us or that, on the other hand, such a stain will only appear when it has stained all the others, because we have been given the immortal gaze upon the mortality of others. And the weariness of the agonies and the fear of the unknown fill the seconds, while the gaze of others scrutinizes ours and finds emptiness. In it, one cannot see fear, nor shadow, nor anything. Because, to tell the truth, we are calm, in this apparent tranquility of acceptance. We accept because we do not know any other way of experiencing this "grand finale". -What do you feel like today? Some soup with old chicken? Or a baked apple? Drink, drink that yogurt, it has vitamins. They say it can prolong life, it's from Longa vida. Or Agros, what difference does it make? The pillows are adjusted for the umpteenth time. What are we going to do with our impotence? We have to make use of it. The hands fall inert and the sighs come out bitter and long. The contradictions increase during this period. When she doesn't feel like seeing anyone. Or being with herself. The lethal numbness will come without a set time and if sometimes she wishes it, other times she wishes it on others. Why me? It always sounds like a slap on the wrist, faceless or intentionless. It grinds her mind, that she has to eat, that a broken bag can't stand up. To see what is clean. And she doesn't even have the strength to shout at him: let the dust accumulate. Leave it. Look at me, because you will have very little left to judge by what I feel in my gut. They didn't even want me for chemotherapy. Or for studying. Look who sang and danced so much in this life. And you say I'm beautiful and you give me your hand, because youth still accompanies you. Because you don't know what it's like to see the hope of participating in life disappear. That runs through your veins. That makes your hands swell in the summer. I'm afraid of leaving. I'm shouting this fear at you, but you don't even notice. Because on my lips you see the same yellow smile, faded and as worn as that cloth you carry everywhere. I want to tell you that I love you. That I'll always be here, even when the other one comes to get me and the funeral is rehearsed. When you'll say goodbye to me. And the others, all the others, that I've grown accustomed to loving. All the others who lived with or without me. Every day I lie in this same position, with the sun high outside, or the certain rain beating against the window. Every day while I watch you cooking, every damn day when everything hurts, I say goodbye to you. And even to the birds and plants, because I miss them. If you ask me if I still believe in God, I will tell you that I need him to keep waiting. Because I want to yell at him. But I accept that God exists without time for all the faithful. And that the line where I find myself seems to be not even moving. That's good. Because from one moment to the next I will be me and, without really realizing it, it will certainly hurt less. It is not fear of death. It is the unknown that arrives and does not bring a smile on its lips of welcome and does not ask us what we think, if we are prepared or if we left something unfinished. And it steals from us the existence that was ours and also of others. And it takes us away with no return. They say, to see the light. Meanwhile, they are already walking around the stove, almost on soft feet, as if the silence were no more disturbing than all the noises of life passing by! - I learn a prayer for you.