Dear one, a post

English: Handwritten note by George Joseph Smi...

English: Handwritten note by George Joseph Smith. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Before anything, between a facebook message from my father’s friend, and a phone call, I went downtown. Once in Australia a friend lent me their ring which he had bought for himself, a kind of fidelity ring. I went to sit in one of the churches, the one I find more friendly although they are both elaborate. I opened my eyes it was another world before me, cream Noche Buena in pots around the altar.

Three nuns with white veils paused one after another before the virgin and came to kneel together in the front pew. I could hear from the square outside water in the fountain, and the faint clatter from a sunny day, and at the same time the silence of the cathedral, the exaggerated sound of every movement.

I went to the bookshop and bought a book of poetry in Spanish. A man sat next to me on a church wall who seemed a bit mentally ill. My mum said once that if someone wanted to tell you something she thinks then you should listen, although in this case he was speaking Spanish so I didn’t understand him. He touched my hands and his hands were smooth and warm. I tried to take a photo of a scene that I found unappealing but to find an interesting angle.

I took the bus home and phoned my parents. My uncle is arriving tonight from overseas. They don’t know when, but my grandma has plans. Her heart is strong but not working properly. We just take each day by day and until then, this.

I am reminded now that I love my parents absolutely for all that they are. My mum said my brother really loved the CD that I bought him for Christmas. Has he listened to it yet? No. My dad is being ‘constant’. I asked my mother what my grandma’s plans were. She said she didn’t know, ‘just living, I suppose’.

There is a song I like by Seeker Love Keeper called Even though I’m a Woman with lyrics I’d be lying if I did not say, I love you more when I’m missing you, it’s why I’m always away. Believe me it’s true. I love the danger in distance, I’d rather be missing you. There is time between each contact to think, to rehearse a story. Sometimes there is nothing to think or write, when everything seems out of reach, and it’s time to go outside for a walk.


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