Alle Eine

The Sunday when I died. As for me, I still wake up early on rainy Sundays. I still look to the right side, where my husband used to sleep, holding our house together. And sometimes I mumble into my pillow: You see, Eduardo, the house is still standing. And then I get up, careful not to step on the loose board, even though no one is left to be disturbed by the noise. Such impulses, especially those that come at night and in solitude, become part of the body’s memory. I still pay no attention to the heel spur and hobble to the bathroom to see myself in the mirror. Strange: since I’ve been alone, I have the impression that the emptiness is diminishing. It’s an almost imperceptible change, a slight tint to my reflection in the mirror, my cheeks a bit rosier or a glimmer returning to my eyes. A person with a better sense of reality would attribute this to the reflection of the dawn outside, the orange-red flaming sky. But not me, no. I feel myself gradually returning. I am neither surprised nor frightened. I feel no pain either. To be honest, I feel something like relief. Alívio, I whisper to myself in my mother tongue, my voice almost just a breath, my mouth very close to the mirror, fogging it with the word. And it’s as if the destiny contained in my name suddenly reveals itself to me: Lívia - the Faded, the Pale, the Light, the Bright. - Lívia! - I repeat aloud, as if calling to myself.