This is a story I wrote a while ago. I hope that you all like it and I hope you missed my posts as well.
In the middle of a summer afternoon I walk down the road towards the small wooden house we used to live in, which now seems to have lost the battle against time; the forest that used to surround our home now threatens to swallow it. Streams of melancholy run through my veins as I get closer, climbing steps that have not been stepped on in years. I stand on the porch for a minute, half expecting to hear your voice call my name as the chimes that hang on the balcony dance to the wind. I am aware of the familiar warmth that radiates from everything in the place as soon as I cross the wooden threshold.
A ray of light enters the room through a single window, shining over the dust covered table that holds the old clay vase I made with my own hands, a vase that you used to place in the flowers you collected during springtime. Still, every corner and crevice, although empty, holds a memory. Sometimes it is a smell, at times a sound, always unique details that manage to invade my senses with a remembrance of times past. I still hear your laughter from the first night we slept together in the house, embracing each other beneath our bed covers as the rain leaked through the roof. The scent of the cinnamon incense that you loved still lingers in the air. I still taste the rich spices you used in the soups you cooked on those cold winter days and the sweet and sour taste of fresh lemonade in the summer, made from the lemons you picked. I also remember the countless times in which I stood on these mahogany wooden floors, taking in the sight of you half asleep—your chest moving up and down following the rhythm of your breath, which seemed to be following a beat as you waited for me on your favorite rocking chair, a smile forming on your face as you finally noticed me standing on the front porch after a day of work.
One last time I stand in front of you, expectant. This time is not different from others, for the unrelenting love in me still burns as fiery as the first day. This passion is what moved my soul to the rhythm of a song still unwritten. The moment I met you I became a part of you, the same way that you became my existence. Still I cannot help but wonder if you ever felt the same way. Doubts cloud my mind as I submerge myself into your eyes, closely inspecting every corner of your face, dazed by its perfection. I move closer and I kiss your photograph; only one of the thousand memories I have of you. The day you left without a word, our life turned to dust just like the one that now covers the place we used to call home. Today, as shards of glass from a broken photograph frame scatter around the room, I cast that shadow aside and move on in hopes that one day I’ll be able to restore at least a small part of what your absence destroyed.
© 2012 Yamil Sárraga