(one of my paintings)Life is a bunch of details put together. But how many we have? Of lives, I mean? It seems that cats have 7, no less. But we, how many? Many more I guess.Each life doesn’t know of how much time it is allotted with and each one of them is populated by different characters. They are so different from each other, that they could have been experienced by anyone else. They are not bound together but exist because of them. They can be independent.
My first life was the one I lived until I was13 years, I was living in a country other than where I live today. Had an alcoholic father, a dead mother and a sister that became my pillar.
Now all this seems so far away in a corner of my memory, so far that sometimes I even doubt of its veracity. It is true that I did not have the family I dreamed of, that of the Christmas dinners I do not even remember anymore. I am almost sure that there must be have been signs at the time of what was about to happen. I guess I didn’t want to see them, today I feel that everything happened so fast but at that time it looked like forever.
My father was usually drunk. Battered by life, hard work, responsibility of a family, misunderstanding, rejection and the end there was alcohol as a solution for all problems. He wanted to be a bohemian artist, my father. For a few hours alcohol molded him into another man, he would leave his shyness and everything he dreamed of doing was to sing for hours, all night. The rest of the time he kept a low profile.
My mother was a woman of grip, but also very anxious, she would get so angry at my father because of his daily drinking problem that to exorcise evil she would break all she could in the house. She was gasping for breath, gasping for life. Her daily routine was limited to a stroll to the market, to take care of the house and by having to do small jobs such as knitting, cooking for sale or selling small artificial flowers she had made herself. But she was sick. I have always known her sick.
I made rounds to the herbalists with her or to the healer, and then sometimes in the late afternoon she drew the living room shutters and stayed there, lying on the sofa, in the dark, to cry until sleep comes her way. Crying for what? Or why? I will never know. Maybe she was crying for the lives she already knew where lost, the lives that she would never live.
My first life was the one I lived until I was13 years, I was living in a country other than where I live today. Had an alcoholic father, a dead mother and a sister that became my pillar.
Now all this seems so far away in a corner of my memory, so far that sometimes I even doubt of its veracity. It is true that I did not have the family I dreamed of, that of the Christmas dinners I do not even remember anymore. I am almost sure that there must be have been signs at the time of what was about to happen. I guess I didn’t want to see them, today I feel that everything happened so fast but at that time it looked like forever.
My father was usually drunk. Battered by life, hard work, responsibility of a family, misunderstanding, rejection and the end there was alcohol as a solution for all problems. He wanted to be a bohemian artist, my father. For a few hours alcohol molded him into another man, he would leave his shyness and everything he dreamed of doing was to sing for hours, all night. The rest of the time he kept a low profile.
My mother was a woman of grip, but also very anxious, she would get so angry at my father because of his daily drinking problem that to exorcise evil she would break all she could in the house. She was gasping for breath, gasping for life. Her daily routine was limited to a stroll to the market, to take care of the house and by having to do small jobs such as knitting, cooking for sale or selling small artificial flowers she had made herself. But she was sick. I have always known her sick.
I made rounds to the herbalists with her or to the healer, and then sometimes in the late afternoon she drew the living room shutters and stayed there, lying on the sofa, in the dark, to cry until sleep comes her way. Crying for what? Or why? I will never know. Maybe she was crying for the lives she already knew where lost, the lives that she would never live.
3 comments:
~thank you...love your work and your words....b
my heart goesout to your gone mother. i feel i know why she cried.
gorgeous painting. it's like i'm peeking into a world, and can only get some of the view.
This is a moving post. Very brave of you for sharing. I came across your blog through le projet d'amour. Glad I did.
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