The Same


The old mother forgets, we assist at the jumble in the windmill of her memory, there’s this careless, relaxed, river of events, muddled up in a talking that is endless… before the war, after the war, decades, months, weeks, the trudging now in the web of days, now and then, the same, in the constant fading present and our desperate attempt at reassembling, with the shoring up of reminding.


Nothing new, it’s easy to foresee the jumble in the strength of the incoming tide, the fading made of many crumbling matchsticks and the vast wave of the debris, pinpointed but mostly quiet, in the oncoming night.


The old mother looks out of the window at the morning weather, when asked she says she has forgotten if it’s raining or snowing, we see her maybe just attracted by a detail in a plant, a new red berry, say, when in her laziness she starts to digress about this new befallen strangeness, and maybe a sunbeam in the meantime casts fresh shadows on the lawn and everything is the same, present and gone.


10


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