The Swallow

I haven’t written in five years. Sometimes the words just don’t come out. They stop in my chest, between my mouth and my stomach, between my mouth and my heart, like dark pebbles within ill-defined boundaries.

It’s almost spring. It took so long to arrive that I don’t care anymore, I don’t see it anymore. My heart has stopped feeling cold, it just got used to it. It’s not that hard really, you have to let yourself get touched but not scratched, hit, knocked down. Its fool-proof: I’m strong now. But when the enchantment shows up between the monotony of my days, I can’t control my reactions, my feelings, my mind, my body. I mean, my life –mine, yours, ours- is a life always made up of coincidences, of enough encounters, clashes, love –and how much love- to hurt us –and how much hurt- but even today, after all this time, I manage to feel awe like in the first days. The bad things disappear inside the sea.

Today is the first sunny day since you left here; since, following you with my eyes beyond the window until you disappeared inside that suicide airplane, I had to, had to, wipe all my tears, swallow my sorrow and return back to everyday life, the everyday life where you are not with me: an old film seen too many times, and every time is really like as if I’ve never seen it before. Rickety trains, delayed airplanes, noisy trains and yellow buses: the life that we chose.

I was reading the book of poems that I bought in the park on that Sunday morning, and I lifted my gaze, dizzy from my thoughts, and I saw him: he was there, brushing the surface of the water with his beak, it was him, I know for sure. We had seen him last summer, on that afternoon when we went to the hills to pick the saddest daisies, to save them, you had told me, to make them bright again. So we ended up making love almost until night time, in the scented grass among the yellow pines (darling, be quiet, darling); there was that tree, an ash tree, I think, that hid from sight almost everything behind it, like the lonely hill of Leopardi, and perched on it, him, straight, with patches all over the body, slightly more pronounced near the eyes, that stared at the blue sea. “Look at that! It looks like a swallow!”. But what am I saying, what an idiot! As if it was a swallow! Why the heck do I always spurt out things like that? And you, seriously and without losing your composure, took my hand and replied: “No. You are my swallow.” It arrived here, who knows how? I got up as his gaze roamed around, around the bushes, inside the canal full of dirty water, but he didn’t find what he was looking for. He asked me, and I replied: “It’s here on me. It’s here inside me.”

The swallows fly away in autumn. It is not right to make them stay, to close them inside a cage. Their freedom to roam the sky, black on cobalt blue, should not be taken away. It is their destiny, and they will always come back to you who let them go. In any case, I know that you know, that someday we will fly together. Does it really matter where? You know, you know. We know. It is enough. Can you hear me? I see you. I hear you. It’s you. Come, save yourself too, let’s save ourselves together. Trust me. Learn to fly. FOLLOW YOUR SWALLOW. 

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