Lucky
One
“In
reality, it all goes down to a set of dynamically emotional pictures
faithfully kept at the media library of our cerebral cortex.”
It
would maybe be around six-forty. Time entered slowly into that edged
luminosity - the hour when tips are broken, ceasing to be, and brief
stories hand-and-line mended are resumed. A mother returned home,
from work, walking. A necessary survival as well as learning life
constant. A child waited by the window. A lingering heartbeat,
measuring the thickness of fear, stuck to the darkness beyond the
cold glass. An urgency of blood ran through the city arteries. The
trees, so far uncovered and muted, were the melancholy. That we
shared, all of us, like air and water and earthly roots. Then there
were the eternally immaculate birds, which in these days went
sheltered in arcades and chimneys. One waits upon the arrival under
the awe of sickness. Maybe the one and only possible way.
Ten
minutes would probably have gone by when the thud sounded beyond the
gates and walls, and the red stained the paint-white and the dark
tar-gray. On the road, a mother-woman lay. For a moment everything
stopped, except the clots, gushing. Two ambulances came. People
gathered in frigid anguish. Everything went as planned.
The
child hugged the mother more intensely. This time, she was lucky.
©
2018, José Coelho
