This was a happy day, I thought. She was acting weird. Weird like when you’re hanging with a cheerful group and everyone is having fun except your friend. You’re embarrassed. She was that friend all day. Come to think of it, the day was not happy for her at all.
She closed the apartment door slowly, with both hands on the white surface. Took a deep breath. Relieved to be alone, wishing I wasn’t there. I gathered episodes of this supposedly happy day and projected them into her mind. Nothing. She felt nothing. Like she refused to feel.
She cooked chicken with mushrooms. She loves mushrooms, so I was relieved. With her hair in a messy bun, oversized t-shirt on, the one that sponsors the beer brand, and barefoot she sat down at the table. I realized she tasted nothing. Everything tasted of ashes. She put down the cutlery, wiped her mouth, and ran to the paper drawer. Looked for the only pen that exists in this house and made a list: book the flight; Sell the car; the two weeks’ notice; the aunt and the apartment; Banks; Insurances; Jonathan and Aurora. She finished, scribbling: “GOING HOME”.
Fury made her sweep everything to the ground, and she fell on her knees. In agony and suffocation beyond compare. She leaned against the beige wall and said, “I miss you so much. Damn it!” I looked into her eyes, she spoke of who she loves. She cried for so long, a soundless cry but full of pain. Stacked on the cold ground. Her right hand held her head, her right knee held her elbow, and her left hand grasped her chest. Like she was stopping her heart from running away to Portugal.
I panicked and became paralyzed. I couldn’t think, speak or find a solution.
We stood there until the smeared makeup dried up and there was no more to cry. Hastily I looked around, I was looking for a way out, something to get her out of that hole. And I remembered the three diaries. I flew to her thoughts, waited for a pause between the images she was reminiscing. Showed her the notebooks and it worked.
There were three diaries she brought from Portugal. She forced those who she loves, to write the magic recipe for longing. To fight times like these. Words, photographs and stories. She read them all, the tears flowed, but the laughter also echoed the room. She took her cell phone, recorded some videos, and sent to them. They were sad videos. Make-up down to the nose, red eyes, trembling voice and heavy words:
– “You know they’re sleeping and when they wake up they’ll be scared?” – I interrupted her.
She shrugged.
– It’s done! We have a commitment, for good and bad times.
This is how we fight our homesickness. There are routines to which she returns, words she repeats, smells and habits she doesn’t forget. Every Sunday morning, she calls to Portugal to see the family that meets for lunch. She’s present on all birthdays, by video call. The cappuccinos and wine glasses with her friends are now virtual, but they still last! During the week she speaks to everyone she remember and doesn’t switches her phone off. That little device it’s the only bridge to those who are far away.
She goes to the beach to feel the sand and the salty water of the sea, but nothing is the same. Nothing feels like home. Even the rain that now strikes the window, doesn’t resemble what we once heard. What hurts the most is the dreams. Hundreds of dreams that, fed by fears, make her cry while she sleeps. Dreams about going back to Portugal, and not being recognized and looked has a failure.
When the longing leaves her helpless, this emigrant life loses meaning.
She puts her running shoes on, but I didn’t allowed her to go. It was late and dark. We went to sleep.
The next morning, everyone answered to the video they received. But none of them agreed or encouraged her to go back home. I’m thankful for it, the time has not yet come. Until then, don’t worry I got her.
/Alice
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