Mercurial

Mothers are like that. They leave suddenly, only to reappear in dreams and thoughts, in sudden conscious longings, in the long forgotten advice about car maintenance, in the shape of a hairdo, or the smell of forgotten soups.
Mothers try like that, not to be remebered, but to give and do: somehow their task is never finished, and their presence is always something to talk about.
Even in memories or dreams, mothers seem to be unwilling to let things be, or to leave a scrapped knee unatended: there is always a practical advice, their gaze yet attentive and watchful.
Mine has not appeared in dreams for a long time, couple of months at most. It is true that I haven't been sleeping, though.
Mothers in dreams, revisiting the world of unfinished projects, of tales that never got told, of stories that need to be shared.
Most of all, the surprise at seeing how it is already 11 months since her death. It is difficult to write, and the need to dress in black has slowly faded into the background of autum clothes, and cold nights.
Eleven months ago it was much more warmer, I remember staying outside getting the news, no need for coats.
I needed more than just a coat back then.
Meanwhile it has been easy to slip on the old habits, to forget all that is left to do, acting as if she was only a step away.
Sometimes I remember her voice, and it seems as if I it has been just a day since we talked about that job or that house, the place or the car. I was always inviting her to this town, and she always saying no - I don't feel the need to tell her to come by, though. Her presence, somehow, is implicit, and the knowledge of so many things is taken for granted.
Acknowledgement comes late: she was right on so many subjects!
There is this subterranean current of pain, a very subtle and pernicious wariness, creeping on consciousness and coloring with its sepia sadness this landscape of emotions.
She hears me, I think.

She was right, I realize.