Redemption

Death. Calamities. Ruin. 

Freshly wet gravel, rough against my chafed knees, was a cold slap of reality. It rained the entire way I drove here. Clouds bolted in thunder as I dusted nothing off the gravestone. Dark, angry clouds warned me of a possible rainy day ahead. Stay away, stay safe, they say.

Life wasn't exactly rainbows before, but 6 months back, it was drained of the only colors that filled it.

Placing bleeding red bouquets wrapped in charcoal tissue paper, I snatched my hand back as if scorched.

Soft fog surrounded us as if angels had befallen Earth.

I've had nothing to eat in days; it's not that I lack money. I just don't feel the need to eat or survive; my protruding structure struggles to stand. The bouquet doesn't really go well with graves, or so I thought.

A fitting selection for a fine lady. Rosalia. Rosa, I loved to call her. Her flushed, ever-blossoming cheeks were a good match to her name.

The winds picked up pace, and so did I. Scurrying over to the warm, toasty bakery, I stepped inside to the blessed blueberry muffin aroma. The shopowner here pitied me, and I quite liked it. I feel something every time she calls me "Poor little thing". Perhaps it is anguish, maybe I become vexed. I don't want to put a name on it; identifying it drains me.

"Would you like a pizza, dear?" said she. I don't know her name; we do not communicate. Every time I come here, she asks me for one particular dish. One, just one. As if it's her way of choosing for me, every time I place money on the bill. Every time she gives me back my money by handing me the coat. Some days she asks me if I want to have soup and garlic bread. The other times it's a muffin or a pizza, like it is today. The amount I hand over is the one printed on her menu, but she doesn't ever take it from me.

I wait until everyone leaves, regardless of when the food arrives. This happened a couple of times before the owner understood that I would not even touch my food while someone else was still occupying the space. She reheated those a couple of times.

One might ask why I come here every day.

I have the money, the lady doesn't let me pay, and while all of that is the way it is.

I succumb to a certain sense of belonging.

It's been a long time.

I have left my people, my aunt, my uncle, and my best friend. Cousin Lily.

6 months ago, Rosalia was abducted to God knows where.

Rosa, my dearest sister.

Followed by all of us spending days and nights trying, with every last breath, to find her. Trace her.

To no benefit, alas. Sometime later, in the middle of my search, I too was taken by those people. The Italians. I do not know where they took me. I saw Rosa, and she looked quite different. She felt like someone I no longer knew. She was suffering, but I couldn't pinpoint the reason for it. And so was I helpless.

She was the reason for my existence. Life was already nothing; we never had our parents with us. We did, however, find each other to be the reason for life & living.

Nevertheless, everything totalled to destruction; my dear was killed. I don't know what had happened. I do, however, long for her each day; some days it's better than others. Some days I think I'm doing really well until it all comes crashing down.

Suffocating, aggravating, this pressure that doesn't ease.

I lose consciousness; I do not have episodes of my grievances.

I have become my grief; it is just who I am now.