Amora: Stories

by Natalia Borges Polesso

everything seemed far away, because that’s how life works at seventeen, when time’s elastic and changes according to your mood and those innocent needs.

Grandma, don’t you get tired of cooking? What else can I do, honey? I like cooking, it passes the time, and life, and at least we’re eating, and you know, people talk less when their mouths are full. And when their tummies are full, they spend less time thinking about nonsense.

I don’t talk much, do I, Grandma? You don’t talk at all. Might do you good to talk a little more and not keep everything locked up inside: ideas all in a jumble, things seen and made up, it’s no good at all. You’re right, Grandma. She was right. Stuff I saw all mixed up with stuff I made up. Me acting like I was cool and composed, then tumbling down the stairs.

You know that when stuff gets mixed up like that in your head it’s because you’re tired. You’re exhausted. The walls spin. You shut your eyes, take a deep breath, and think that one second you’re up above, your thoughts steady on your shoulders, and then suddenly your legs are flying over your head.

“We’ve only just started. Be patient.” “We’ve only just started this time, though. Right, Caetano? How many times have I been here, how many will I come back?” “As many as you need.” “Neither of us will ever know.” “Of course not, but we’ll keep on trying. Isn’t that what life is? A series of trials?”

“No. My language. It’s chaotic, it comes from inside me, from a part of me that’s still wild. A part I don’t understand. I can’t grasp what I’m feeling.

“You try to rationalize everything, analyze everything, scrutinize everything. Try feeling instead. Think about it, about your impulses.

and learned to accept life as imminent and fated,

Florlinda, “lovely flower.”

You disappear and hope people will stay there, in the world, for you. Like unmoving ports lying in wait for a rudderless boat adrift at sea, and no lighthouse in sight.

I’ve been feeling so sad. You, who know me and whom I’ve always looked up to: Have I always been this sad?

but the thing is, all I’ve got the strength to do is to talk and talk. You know? To empty my head, drain my strength, hollow myself out. I feel so full. Full of sadness.

Then, before going to bed, we look at each other for a very long time. We look at each other so that we can try and understand how on earth we got to this point. We never do. We always do. We are very quiet; we’ve always enjoyed silence.

So I pray. I pray we’ll be together, as together as we’ve always been, now and at the hour of our death.

I feel like crying