Her eyes were blue, tearful ... deep shadows. She must have been blond, beautiful in her youth. She had been widowed. The Queen of England could be her sister.
He is wrong; I asked her if she wanted anything. Nothing. His room is full of virgins and relics, it has a characteristic smell. The balls and reels are abandoned, he left that custom. Days ago I rode a bicycle, it was prodigious to see her; each pedaling was the rotating thrust of a whole body, already old, already tired, already required by death; a push or the destiny of human life ... to advance! Yesterday she arrived sad, stiff, with the terror in her eyes, had stolen her bicycle, her treasure. From that moment I liked to go shopping with me; I had been replaced by a saddle and two wheels ... I did not care! Purchase the essentials. The Irishman is usually stingy. He kept the change in a piggy bank, a memory of London. After eating, he spends hours reading a newspaper, hidden behind him, watching you. His life has been reduced to a garden. Sleep in the sun; you think she's dead. He burned an arm, a memory of Benidorm. He worked hard, a bulge sticking out of his side. His shadow is amorphous. He is kind and you laugh with his things. His son, a bastard, will marry when she dies, a way of saying "go away." His name, Margaret, shortens it in Rita; always invoked it at home, sounded like an insult, but she liked it. A priest and several ladies come every afternoon. They enjoy tea and do not know how to smoke, they argue and play in the basket. In this land men last little. She knows how to cook in the oven with an art of yesteryear already known, from generation to generation, the same journey of the house ... from her grandmother to her mother, and from her mother to her. Just eat; when it does, it resembles a squirrel. He has no teeth.
All the doors close at night ... even the interiors. The main one has five locks and the one in the orchard is locked with a shovel. Everything is dark, except for a red plaque that illuminates the cross of the corridor and a portrait of when she was a child. His eyes and smile would linger in my memory.
I found out from a postcard that she was hospitalized. Your son is married.
(Terenure-Dublin, August 1977)
He is wrong; I asked her if she wanted anything. Nothing. His room is full of virgins and relics, it has a characteristic smell. The balls and reels are abandoned, he left that custom. Days ago I rode a bicycle, it was prodigious to see her; each pedaling was the rotating thrust of a whole body, already old, already tired, already required by death; a push or the destiny of human life ... to advance! Yesterday she arrived sad, stiff, with the terror in her eyes, had stolen her bicycle, her treasure. From that moment I liked to go shopping with me; I had been replaced by a saddle and two wheels ... I did not care! Purchase the essentials. The Irishman is usually stingy. He kept the change in a piggy bank, a memory of London. After eating, he spends hours reading a newspaper, hidden behind him, watching you. His life has been reduced to a garden. Sleep in the sun; you think she's dead. He burned an arm, a memory of Benidorm. He worked hard, a bulge sticking out of his side. His shadow is amorphous. He is kind and you laugh with his things. His son, a bastard, will marry when she dies, a way of saying "go away." His name, Margaret, shortens it in Rita; always invoked it at home, sounded like an insult, but she liked it. A priest and several ladies come every afternoon. They enjoy tea and do not know how to smoke, they argue and play in the basket. In this land men last little. She knows how to cook in the oven with an art of yesteryear already known, from generation to generation, the same journey of the house ... from her grandmother to her mother, and from her mother to her. Just eat; when it does, it resembles a squirrel. He has no teeth.
All the doors close at night ... even the interiors. The main one has five locks and the one in the orchard is locked with a shovel. Everything is dark, except for a red plaque that illuminates the cross of the corridor and a portrait of when she was a child. His eyes and smile would linger in my memory.
I found out from a postcard that she was hospitalized. Your son is married.
(Terenure-Dublin, August 1977)
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