Riverdrops

She.

She was 34 when I first met her. I was the new girl in the department. She had been in that department for a few months. The affair of the kiss with my ex-boss had happened only one month before, and she was one of the few people who knew about my situation then. She was always ready to listen to me and to give me some advice. We worked together for almost one year. Then the company didn't renew her contract and she left.

She was 34 when I first met her. A bit short. Blue eyes. Blonde hair that was beginning to grow again. She had already lost a breast when I met her. She didn't want anyone to see her scar, but I did. She trusted me.

She was 36 when she died at 7.30 this morning. The cancer had reappeared this year. She died at home, with her husband, who left his job in the last weeks to take care of her. As far as I know, they loved each other madly. Their son is six years old. She was so crazy about him.

She was 36, and she will always be 36 from now on. Or will not. To me, she will always be the smiling blonde girl who listened to me when I had problems, when I needed desperately someone to talk to. I didn't have the chance to tell her about my life now. I didn't have the chance to listen to her. Last time I saw her was many months ago. I should have phoned her. I should have been there for her. I should have...

I should have said goodbye when I could.

We found a flat.

We are going to be able to move in one month. I'm extremely excited about it. So many things have happened in the last year, and are still happening... I can hardly believe my life is so different. Right now I feel quite happy. I'm sure everything's going to be ok. At least, that's what I want to believe.

It is a nice flat. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a big living room. A bit old, but good enough for us. We don't have to pay too much for the rent, and we're surely going to save some money every month. We're not going to be able to buy fancy furniture, but we don't need it.

I'm looking forward to moving soon. I adore feeling his warm skin close to me when I wake up in the morning. I like it when we get up together and he makes coffee and makes a cigarette for me. I also like it when he stays in bed when I go to work, I love kissing his forehead while he complains, half asleep, and mumbles something like 'leave me alone... I'm sleeping...'. And I smile, I can only smile, because I'm happy.

I want it every day. I want to know that he's going to come in through the door in the evening, after work, and kiss me.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so cheesy. I couldn't help it.

A name for it.

I suppose that's what I wanted. To know a name. To put some kind of face to what had been happening (and is still happening) to me.

I wanted to know why. I wanted to know what to do to stop the pain and the sickness. Now I know they will be here with me forever, but at least I can take a medication.

My mother is devastated. It is not the worst disease in the world, but now it is too much for her. She would like me to go back to my land, to live close to my parents. I want her to understand that I need to live my own life. And I'll be ok, I'm sure of it.

A name for it. It was not a surprise, because I had been checking my symptoms on Internet and I knew it was very possible.

Now I know the name: Crohn.

Sweet dark grapes.

The time is coming. The grape harvest time. Summer is almost gone. My brother’s birthday is near. Every year the same. Always a Sunday, by the end of September. Every year all the family and friends gathered in my uncle’s villa, for the grape harvest. He had a small vineyard. About thirty or forty people could do almost all the harvest in only one day.

My aunt and my mum in the kitchen, preparing a great lunch for everyone. My grandmother sitting down the sunlight. My brother and me, just two children, helping the others with the harvest. Some other children we knew. Some other children we saw only that day every year. Running up and down with baskets full of grapes. Eating secretly some of the dark treasures we were carrying.

I remember the laugh. Everybody looked happy. Lunch time was the best. I still see the grapes on the table. Bread, cheese, tomatoes, lots of meat, and laugh.

I was so sad when my uncle decided to get rid of the vineyard. How many years have past? I can’t remember. He felt too old and too tired to take care of the vineyard and my cousins didn’t seem to be very interested in it.

I don’t miss my land. I don’t even know if I miss my family. But somehow I miss my childhood. I miss those days when everything was perfect, and happy, and there was nothing to worry about.

I suppose that’s the problem of having a happy childhood. The world you find later on is a bit different…

Blindness

I was talking to my mother on the phone, a few days ago. Talking about money, basically. Then I mentioned that my Blue Eyes and I are probably going to live together by the end of the year and, of course, it is going to be good for our pocket. She's happy if I'm happy, and I know my parents liked him.

Then she started talking about my ex-boyfriend. She said (and of course I knew it) that she and my father never liked him. And then she explained to me some things that my ex-boyfriend did and said by the time my parents came to visit me, seven or eight years ago. I was really surprised, because I don't remember any of those things that really shocked my parents. How could I not see it at that moment?

Many years ago, one of my best friends came to visit me as well. She came with her boyfriend (today her husband), and they met my ex-boyfriend. I remember nothing strange from that visit. Everything was fine. But when I talked to my mother on the phone the other day, she talked about that.

After her visit, my friend and my mother met by chance one day. They talked about me, and my ex-boyfriend. My friend told my mother that she had felt so sorry for me. That, of course, worried my mother a lot. And some days after that, my mother phoned my friend, trying to know something more. I've no idea of what they talked about. But my mother always believed that he mistreated me.

She asked me. Again. She asked me if my ex-boyfriend mistreated me. I said no again. And I said that she had always been wrong about that. Of course there are some things I never explained to my mother. Because I didn't want to worry her, and because I would never give her the satisfaction to believe she was right. She wasn't. I never considered he mistreated me. That would be a true insult to those women (and men) that are living this serious problem.

Anyway, leaving aside these nuances... How could my friend say she was sorry for me? That happened long time ago, many years before the affair of the kiss that completely ruined my life... or was it ruined before?

How could I be that blind? Why didn't I see what was so obvious for everyone else? How come I lived with him for so many years?

Why didn't I think 'God! He's a f*g bastard!'?

Scottish accent.

An Irish boy was laughing at me a couple of nights ago. He said it is funny I'm getting a Scottish accent when I speak English, considering I've never been there. He's not the first one to tell me. Another Irish and an English boy were laughing at me some weeks ago, because of the same reason. I just say it's my teacher's fault. But, to be honest, I like it.

I don't even know which words I use sound Scottish and why. I'm trying not to say 'wee', although one day I'm really going to forget that the word 'little' exists. Really. But my English knowledge is not enough to distinguish accents. An Irish boy and an English man were trying one night in a pub to make me say which one of their accents was the best. 'But what's the difference!?' I had to say.

Well, it's true I hear some differences when I listen to different accents, but it is really difficult to know where they are from. But I hope I'll be able to do it in the future.

And who knows, maybe one day I might go to sunny Scotland and feel like home with my Scottish accent! I'll keep practising.

The colour of the sea.

Some people need to feel unhappy to be able to write. Sadness is a great inspiration many times. I think I'm one of those. I haven't written here for a long time, and it's probably because of one simple reason: I feel happy.

I realized one wonderful thing yesterday. His eyes...

(those lovely slightly greenish blue eyes)

...have just the colour of my land's sea. I saw it so clear. His bright eyes looking at me, his hair covered by the salty water, the sun in his skin.

Our last day in my homeland, by now. One week is so short sometimes. Our plane landed last night. Back to the routine.

Everything's the same, but at the same time, it's different.

I'm happy.

Some songs exerts a strange power over me. There's one particular song that makes me cry inconsolably: 'Hope there's someone'.

I can't explain the feelings it causes inside me. Something related to my meaningless existence, the absolute despair, the solitude. The years passing by and the bare hands. The dark empty horizons. A vain past, a difficult present, a hopeless future. Nothing. I feel the nothing inside.

One man said the only thing that really transcends our existence is what we leave here behind for the others. What am I leaving behind? What have I done for the others?

Today's one of those days. I haven't seen a single face yet. I don't feel really sociable today.

I like the sound of rain. I like seeing the lightnings. Counting the seconds between lightning and thunder. I like hearing the thunders.

I like summer storms. So noisy, so powerful, so warm.

I close my eyes and I see myself years ago. I see the storms of my childhood's summers. I don't know why, but in my mind, summer storms are strongly related to an specific place. There's no other place like that in the whole world. I've been in many houses, I've spent a lot of time in many places. But there's a house which I especially love. My grandfather had a little villa, close to the coast. My summer memories are always linked to that house, to the well on the back terrace, to the vine arbor which doesn't exist any more. I remember the nights having dinner on the terrace, listening to the radio, sitting under the starry sky.

And suddenly, the storm. Warm water falling impetuously from the black clouds. Leaving in the air that particular smell of wet earth. I remember the gas lanterns, the night walks after the rain.

It's raining. I like the sound of rain. I have no dinner on the terrace under the stars, I haven't got that smell in the air. I haven't got the night walks, the lanterns, my grandfather's stories. But I close my eyes, and I listen to the rain. The rain is the same. The sound is the same. My summer storms come back every year.

Routine and change.

The company where I'm working is going through serious problems. Redundancy again? I don't know, but it's being rumoured. Lately I'm a bit scared because in my department the work has dramatically decreased. How long is this going to last?

What would happen if I lost my job? I've been thinking of it during the last weeks. I wouldn't have been worried if it happened some years ago, but now... well, you all know the difficulty of getting a job right now.

Anyway, I'd have an unemployment benefit at the beginning, so the situation wouldn't be extremely serious. That is not what worries me.

Why am I worried now? Changing my job would surely entail a change of routine. I've got used to a routine in the last months. I like my routine. It's comfortable and easy, and I've learnt to love it. Maybe because my routine (and my life) in the last two years was a complete disaster, I've got used to this new one so easily and I've clung to it this way. I'm afraid of a change. I don't want to change something that is working well. At least, it is working well for me.

I guess I'm growing old and becoming a bit more intolerant to changes. Or maybe I'm afraid of losing what I've got.