An old woman lays in a bed before me, with graying hair and her sweet, weak voice. She let out a dry cough and grasped her chest, but I quickly moved forwards and handed her a glass to drink.
I had known her long, and she had once been young.
This day she says to me, as I go out to wash her clothes,
“It was a rainy night when I found you, alone in the old shack. With drenched clothes I slid open a door to the run-down building, and the door made a raspy noise in response to me. Behind the door I said ‘Oh!’, as I saw you there all alone and broken and saw the glow of the moon reflected in your porcelain skin.
“From the moment the door opened I knew I could not stand seeing you like that, so I picked up your pieces, collected them all, using my jacket as a sack. Then I went out and back in the rain.
“Then once I was home I began to puzzle, how to piece your still corpse back together. It was exhausting , but with glue and will I put you together and then you awoke and sat up; you fixed your eyes on me.
“All alone here we lived, just us two here with us. Day and night we talked and laughed. In the mornings you did my hair for me, in the evening I painted the parts of your skin that had faded. We ate together, you and me. This was all we did, you and me.”
She gave me a short smile, then rested her face. I put down the box filled with clothes and then she again opened her mouth to speak.
“Do you remember that autumn night?”
Yes, vividly. The smattering of rain on all window-glass panes, the howling of the wind and how it shook the house. How her then smooth hand put that vinyl record with a wine red center into the oak and brass gramophone. How she turned her head up to me with a smile as the music started.
“Come closer a bit, and hold my hand.”
With a silent nod I moved a bit closer. I grasped her hand with my own, and felt hers being colder than mine.
That autumn night her hand had been warm and her steps had been quick, and we went around around, spun in circles and placed our feet on every part of the floor.
I had been twirled around in many circles.
“Please,”
she began. I realized she was just the same. But that didn’t stop her, and she continued
“do not leave to wash my clothes,
“stay here just a little bit more.”
From the porcelain eyes on my face I could feel a pull and a sting and I knew what would come. A warm droplet ran down my chin and into my mouth, but I could not feel its taste.
The old woman, now lit by the sun from the window, smiled at me and held my hand tighter. And like that we sat, until the sunset.