I’m too sad to realize who I really am. I find myself in the stories of my friends who are already grown up. I find myself in their losses. Or maybe it just seems that way. Parents do what parents do. They try to cheer me up.
But I stay with my attempt. Places are the ones that keep us anchored in pain. And now I must lose it. I measure my steps as I head for the exit. The park seems endless. But hope lies hidden. It follows me. Now it creeps in the sound of water that never stopped flowing. The red mug is the spot of color in this whole black-and-white universe. In fact, it is everything that unites us as people - drinking that water from Manole’s Fountain. I climb the steps and say goodbye to the park. I cross the street and see the monastery wall. The path stretches before me, shaded by fir trees. Maybe I could have needed the quiet, but the cobblestone path repeats its jerky song with every step I take. Mom approaches me and does what she usually does when we’re here. We sit down on a bench and she begins to tell me the legend of the building of the Monastery. Although I know the story, it alone anchors me to everything I experienced as a child.
The wind sneaks through all the indentations of the fleurons surrounding the church until only a breeze remains beneath the priests’ vestments. I whisper “Thank you”, as I did once before when a bracelet with a carefully carved wooden cross slipped through my fingers.
Now I’ve lost it. But it was mine. It still is.
With longing, from the bench to the right of the monastery, to the doll that broke, that was mine and still is. I lit a candle for you there, but to the Dead now. And we never heard the bell ring together.