She was pouring oceans off her eyes, forcing laughter to come out and clear off the muddy waters. I took her chick into my hand and let her drown. She was drowning beside me and I was thankful for that. My face lines were still steady; until one moment. We had swiched places and she was drowning into my eyes this time. The earth shook gracefully and I had to lift her up.
” I have always loved your surname. I used to imagine a curly hair girl running on a marble path towards us, trying to prove she can pronounce it. I used to imagine us staring at her running towards our open arms. I imagined our home behind her and us competing with the world.”
Saying all that was melting my insides.
“She would pronounce it just like you”, she said.
I smiled while my sorrows were learning once again how to swim.
In that moment, down on the road of memories, I found my mind being in control. I was terrified and at the same time, surpised of the accomplishment. It was easy to dictate my body’s next move despite the burning desire or the flaming heart.
I was alright and at the same time, I was ruined.
In my existence, I never gave hope such a great extension.
I was giving a chance to another chapter. Life. And that was alright.
There were not necessary many gestures to get my eyes filled with tears. My grandfather’s arm on my shoulder was enough. Not many words either. Just his saying that I will always have him.
I always saw my grandpa as a sinner. I did not know any of his sins but that’s what I saw in him. Through his sins, I would also see his affection and love. As a man born in the 50’s, he was not the kind to share his feelings openly. He did it differently, as if he was ashamed of them or me.
When I was a little girl, he used to come and take me for long walks. He made me see the world from a different level; 2 meters height to be more specific. My legs would play freely around his neck, my fingers would twist though his hair and my eyes would not stop sparkling. He carried me on his shoulders from the mountains to my grandma’s house. He was proud of his first born niece. Two years after, he used to pick me up from school. I would climb the hill to home with him and our discussions would be nothing but childish. Even back then, I used to see him as a sinner but his sins loved me. Not long after that time, he got sick and I lost him for ten years. To be honest, I do not recall a lot of moments with him those years. I have one image though that I cannot forget. It was at the beginning of his worsts and as his illness hadn’t been defined by any doctor, we defined it ourselves. Even now, we live by the same theory; psychical exhaustion. As I was saying, I remember him making sounds of different animals; snakes, frogs, the perfect imitation. His eyes were turbulent. It was dark outside and the room had been filled with his growling. My grandmother had gone to call the priest, my little aunt was standing as still as a tree and her face had all shades of yellow. My older aunt was sitting on her knees in front of him, crying and praying. I was in the corner of the room, tantalizing my eyes from my grandfather to my crying aunt. I would never forget those few minutes; neither my aunt’s tears nor my grandpa’s sounds. I also remember that when the priest stepped in, his condition got worse. I do not recall the next hours or days. I grew up visiting them in summer. His stare would not leave the noisy black box and his body won’t get out of the house. That’s how he lived until 2010 when my grandma called, saying that her husband went to the city and he wants to come to visit us. No word about those ten years had been said to him.
Today, he came after me on the streets as I was talking a short walk. I saw that profound affection for me through his kind touch and still, his sins love me.