sexta-feira, 19 de junho de 2009

Sometimes, not very frequently, I shut my eyes and imagine I’m close to you, just sitting in your tomb or standing next to it. I then face the little hill downwards in front of me, the houses of the small village, and behind them the narrow peaceful river. And on the other side of the river I can see the vast agricultural plains, with the mountains on the horizon. Behind me, only a few meters from your resting place, the hill where the cemetery stands transforms itself in a forest, and from those woods I can hear a variety of sounds, mainly from birds. If we stay very still and silent we can even see rabbits, foxes, or a deer. And in there, with my eyes shut, I can hear the sound of the tree leaves blown by the breeze. You’re in a pretty, unpretentious, and very peaceful place my love. I’m very glad I went to say goodbye to you there. This way I can always keep a visual memory of the place in which you will rest forever.


I keep dreaming with you Lea. Even today you were there, in one of my nightly fantasies, in terms I no longer remember exactly. I miss you so much! Everything’s lost its meaning and it’s getting lonelier here everyday. When in bed, before I fall asleep, sometimes I try to remember your expressions on precise moments. And eventually I succeed and try to hold that thought for some seconds more. I find it particularly hard, though.


I still have your phone number in my cell phone, as well as all the messages we’ve sent each other. In my photographic camera I still have the memory card full with all the photos I’ve taken when I was there with you last Christmas, with the exact dates of when they were taken. I’ve thought of what it would mean to me to erase them. I already have them on my computer and in another data device, but I think I will not be able to do it. I can’t erase them, not the photographs nor your cell number or our messages. Also the things you gave me in Christmas, like that beautiful book about the Slovak mountains you loved so much, plus the photo of you your mother gave me after you died, and some other little things, are all inside a plastic bag I keep over a table in the room where I sleep without opening it. I don’t seem to have the courage to open it. Better said, I have, but I know it will hurt too much! I dream of the day I’ll have my own house, or room, in which I can put your picture in a frame and keep it at sight forever, like you deserve.


Like I said, I miss you too much Lea. And so, I want to leave here this picture, of the church in Rézekne in front of which we kissed for the first time, sitting in the grass in that freezing night in Latvia. It’s just another fragment of our story that I can look upon if I ever loose my reasoning. Anyway, I still hope one day I can be just fine.

I love you.