pra sophia [e pro jeito das suas poesias]
novembro 25, 2009 § 1 comentário
Aldona and Peter K. gradually disappeared from our lives. Until many years later. My mother and father and I were visiting a distant relative in a distant city, and the K. family, Mr. and Mrs. K. that is, dwelled next door. The three of us decided to knock. Mrs. K. remembered us, and invited us in to a dark living room made darker by drawn shades. Yes almost every object was white. There were so many white objects I myself began to feel like a night bulb. She did not stop talking. She would ask a question of us and then quickly proceed to another story about Peter K. and Aldona. Every sentence began to feel like a tangent, and the four of us began to feel completely tangential to everything, all sense of time, except this dark room with white. It was both suffocating and beautiful. I wondered finally if she remembered us at all, not as if she had an illness but because of her white insistence. Her hair white, her dress white, her shoes white, her words white. When white photographs began to be sought form white drawers the three of us visitors stood in rare unison and uttered perfunctories as we moved toward the door. She was still white when we returned to the world outside insistence. And her door closed as a shadow.