A Memory

A Memory, a Hundred Echoes

I would start, I think, with a door.

An old door, of solid wood, smudged by time and the touch of a thousand hurried hands.

It's not an important door, it's not the door of a palace or a legendary library.

It's just the door of a ground-floor apartment,

Where the morning light filtered timidly, like a silent promise.

I don't know why, but every time my memory is activated,

Its image appears to me. Without keys, without a handle, just a door.

A wooden door, with cracked paint, bearing the traces of stories I haven't told.

It's like a portal. Beyond it, a past I keep digging into.

My memory is a battlefield.

Some memories, like brave soldiers, surface, alive, vibrant,

As if they happened yesterday.

The colors, the smells, the sounds, they are all there.

Others, pale ghosts, fade into shadows, like tormented shadows,

An echo of an echo.

And there are also those that sting.

Like a burn, an open wound.

They don't disappear, they don't fade.

They sting. They sing a sad melody, but one that never ends.

And it's not a melody you want to listen to.

It's one you are forced to listen to, over and over again,

Until you lose your mind to its rhythm.

I'd like to talk about you.

About how you slipped into my memory, like a gentle light.

I don't know exactly when it happened.

It was perhaps on an autumn day, with rust-colored leaves falling on the wet asphalt.

You were wearing a long, gray coat.

I remember your smile, a timid smile, but one that pierced my heart.

Or maybe it was at that concert, on a summer evening,

With thousands of people, and you, with your hands raised, were dancing to the rhythm of the music.

I saw your eyes then, twinkling in the spotlights,

And I knew you were, in a way, mine. Ours.

It was a promise. A promise of the future.

But promises, like memories, have a price.

What details surface?

The smell. The smell of fresh coffee in the morning. Made by you.

The smell of rain on the hot asphalt.

The smell of cut grass, of acacia honey.

And there is another smell that haunts my nights.

The smell of a hospital. Of disinfectant. Of dried tears.

It's a smell that takes my breath away.

It's a smell that, simply, doesn't go away.

It's a smell that stings.

The sounds. Your laugh. A bell sound, sincere and crystalline.

Your voice, which I still remember now, with a strange accuracy,

When you told me stories, when you argued with me, when you told me you loved me.

I remember the rustle of your clothes when you got up from the chair.

I remember the sound of the key in the lock. A sound of return. A sound of hope.

But I also remember another sound.

A silence. A heavy, total silence.

A silence that came after another silence.

The silence that followed our last fight.

The silence on the other end of the phone, when I called.

That silence is what haunts me the most.

It's more deafening than any noise.

What is fading?

The details of your face. The color of your eyes, which I remember as blue, but sometimes seems green.

The shape of your nose. Or the way you raised your eyebrows when you were puzzled.

Some memories, which I considered crucial, have become, over time,

Shadows. Vapors. Simple echoes.

I remember we went to a football match. But I don't remember who we played against.

I remember we went to a movie, but I don't remember the plot.

I remember you, but I don't remember what you were wearing that day.

My memory, like a distracted painter, has lost the colors,

It has kept only the contours, the shadows.

And the most important memories, the ones that remained, are not yours.

They are mine.

And what still stings or sings?

It stings, like a burn.

The pain. The pain of an absence that gives you no peace.

The pain of a hand I can no longer hold.

The pain of a smile I can no longer see.

Every unspoken word stings.

Every "I love you" that remained in my throat, like a lump.

Every "I'm sorry" that I didn't have the courage to say.

Every night, every morning, every moment stings,

Because in every moment, you are, but you are not.

You are a memory. You are an echo. You are a pain.

And you sing. You sing a song. A lullaby.

It's not a sad song. It's a song of hope.

A simple melody. A melody about a door.

A wooden door, with cracked paint.

And a key. A key I held in my hand, but which I let fall.

A key to a door that, perhaps, one day,

I will open again.

But then it will be a door to the future.

A door to a place where memories sting less,