A True Story

A True Story

Rolling as I was, in a tube of perpetual movement, arrogance and heat

Half standing half sitting, near the one who had nurtured me since birth,

Closer to creation, closer to love, closer to my mother,

the only god I know, that created me, no miracle, if only of life, that lays in question since that day.

A sudden and uncaring halt, a tensing of muscles,

A cry from in front “Allez vous a la Rue Claire monsieur?!”

The shriek of a crow, wearing it's funeral suit.

Turning, clearly did I see her,

Frail,

Alone,

Sharp and Alert,

In control, in her mind, of her mind, of this moment.

Her howling answered, annoyed look after annoyed look followed her to the front of the carriage,

no one saw my discreet helpings, a punching of tickets, a security pole that she might not slip off,

The seat, my mother gave her.

Who are you, was my first question, but only my mind heard it, as it heard my heart beating, as it, Perhaps, heard hers.

Her pink dress, reminiscent of childish dreams, the flowers woven in, reminiscent,

Of when she could,

See Them.

Words escaped her, words of the past, that, in my close proximity to her, stabilizing, sheltering,

heard with all its force, all its truth.

As such we talked, the bus passing all the landscapes that were so familiar, so reassuring,

as to be subdued by jealous society.

As she pointed and smiled, “Finally a student!”, I gazed at her whiskers, her white unwashed hair,

her dry lips, her countenance forming the purest and most natural waves of all,

Of age.

Then, I gazed into her eyes, where I saw who she was,

She had loved, she had feared, and as she told me stories of war, I said,

“What a story you tell me” and uncontrolled, replied “No no, a true story”,

At this, her life was full ,and had been but a fraction told, happy as she was,

Pleased as was I.

Looks Had Gone From The Misery Of Life, To Seeings Its Wonder.

We are here said I, your stop,

And as I held her hand, I saw a small girl, as if in a dream,

Skipping wearing a pink dress with flowers,

And heard her heart yearn to be.

As we walked down the clear road of time, she refused to stop,

And as I was to leave, she pulled me down, close to her and said,

“Half of me is dead, I was somewhere before, but now, I was supposed to die”

And she left, with the promise of a picture of Kennedy in Berlin, and of life.