I don’t remember this day very well. I am not even sure that it happened. You were writing letters on your skin. I watched you by the grass from my chair on the porch. It was almost sunset and the distant meadows seemed to be the only things that could see us. Perhaps tiny creatures, we were unaware of, also watched us as we cracked.
Every letter that went through the needle into your skin said something about us. Every sentence formed seemed to say something about our journey. Cracks of light were starting to shine through. These were paragraphs made of the present, with part of the past, whilst desperately aiming for the future.
I didn’t understand you.
You got up from where you sat on the grass and walked towards the porch, where I was still sitting having a cup of tea. I couldn’t see your face as the wind blew through your hair. You held my hand and made me put the cup of tea down on the floor next to a lighter.
I kept holding onto your hand for as long as I can remember.
As we walked into the house you said that you were starting to understand my universe. I pretended not to understand what you meant because it scared me. We both picked up some wood from a basket and started feeding the fireplace to light a fire. It would be a cold night, but perhaps not inside the house.
This was the night we conceived our son, but I am not even sure that it really happened.
© Joanna Mamede, 2019. All rights reserved.