Fire-brand

The fire freezes you. It deadens all of your insides.

You wander empty of senses. Its smell clings to your nostrils

for a long time. The smell of fire is worse than fire itself.

It won’t go away, no matter what you do to get rid of it.

You’re reaching your lowest point.

A constant “Why?,” “But how?,”

a flame-bomb, and you’re lost.

The nowhere of now.

Memories sliding down my eyelids.

I remember, I’ll always remember the hands that

took our hand. You’re an object all of a sudden.

A hand grabs you and takes you. How does a

hand find a hand? A hand that you were

expecting because you had a life flow of a

give, take, take, take, give, but also a whole

bunch of other hands that you hadn’t imagined.

Some angels out of nowhere. I remember,

I will always remember with sobbing emotion

an array of underwear, nightgowns, overalls, a coat,

a jacket, toothbrushes... I remember and

my soul breaks for her care, her caring, her

“order” of thought for us. But how did she

do it and in a matter of hours she had prepared

a “cosmos” for us? And she never mentioned it,

as if it was something easy, a piece of cake.

Something that is meant as an act of man to man.

In the ashes of a fire a little angel.

In the black darkness for everyone, for everyone,

for everyone, there’s always a little angel

popping up somewhere. In the days you run

as if you are and are not you. At night, as soon

as the lights go out you’re mentally serenading

your home. You open the door with the key,

touch it where you used to touch it,

enter the kitchen, the rooms one by one,

think, cry, remember, caress flowerpots, chairs,

that collection. You mourn objects that you

didn’t have it for much of anything.

They come like sudden slaps. “Oh! And that one!

And that one!,” knots going up and down

your throat. Don’t make the mistake of

calling them “objects.” You’re mourning the

touch of your life on the objects. That

drawer of our children’s shoe boxes.

Even though they’ve given us grandchildren now.

Those notebooks with their first letters,

their children’s drawings, the photographs,

especially the one with my father.

How proud you were that you had preserved them!

You count every loss as incalculable.

But day by day... Day by day... Just like a

cyclamen on a black back... Life blossoms,

life blossoms. A beginning blossoms.

But it takes time. And it hurts along the way.

As you reach your bottom, you reach your nothing.

You’re ashamed to say it, but you’re winking

at a wild release. You mean it, you mean it deeply.

Only whenever you smell fire... Whenever you see

raging flames... Whenever you see people

with the marble look... You turn back sharply.

And... you feel, deeply. You understand

everything. You sympathize deeply.

You hurt. All deep. Source.