Death is like a breakup.
Survivors are thirsty.
Desires confused with memories long for a place to be.
Something stays incomplete.
Today I am mending my heart, knowing I’ll soon hand the keys of my family house to the buyers.
I spent most of the afternoon inside this place where I grew up, collecting garbage to toss. And I listened to so many talks.
Is there anything that can still be done? Can you still sell this or that thing? Isn’t that too cheap? Aren’t these too many books to carry?
I hear all this noise inside and outside me and all I wanna do is to run away. Because it doesn’t matter how much is left: it’s only a shade of what once was lived inside. Every knife, each and every yellow dusty page of all those books, they all used to breathe life. The rusty trays where we used to carry our morning coffee. Now everything is moldy, hidden inside that expensive furniture. White worms having a party inside the kitchen cabinets.
I spent 3 days bringing to my granny’s place all the things which I and my brother want to keep. But how much can weight a box full of old books when every step I take is one farther from that old life I can’t stop to miss? I hear my parents’ hysterical laughs fading away. As I slam the box on the ground and I wipe sweats from my forehead, I feel my mom’s lips before falling asleep.
What does it count now, of all the money coming out from this tragedy? Does it really make a difference to ‘save’ something for the future when the essence of that house has gone already many years ago?
I listen to all the people who wanna do something useful about what is still left while my heart screams and yells, like a hungry newborn. But if I look carefully inside myself, all I find today is a celebration.
Because we’re used to be grateful or happy just when things go right.
But looking for bitter lessons coming from natural pains should be part of a healthy existence.
The sun shines because we know what’s like to be in the dark.