She came in black rags, sat down at the fireplace and did not move anymore before spring flowers put their heads out of forgottenness.
What do you want? I said. I cannot share my food with you because I am starving. I cannot tell you stories because nothing happens. And I cannot sing you songs because the joy bird has flown away with the first rainfalls.
Sssht, said the uninvited guest. I will give you to eat. And she got out of her pocket a dirty piece of bread and broke it in two.
I thanked her, went to the toiled and flushed it down. I did not want to eat. I was too tired for food.
Come here, the crone ordered. I can tell you stories.
I stood up, with the pretext of measuring the snow in front of the cottage.
The door was closed. That old beggar in black clothes had shut me in, together with herself. I did not have the strength to jump out of the window. Anyway there was no place to go to. Nobody to open a door and to boil you an egg.
Okay, I said, you have won. So you can also tell me a story. But I hate stories. They are sad when they talk about the black and white winter, and they make me sad when they talk of the colours of summer.
There is a line between summer and winter, the old lady said. This is where stories are made.
My fear was rising. Stories were either dreadful and hurt me, or they were beautiful and hurt me even more. Yet the burden of my invisible self was too big. I did not have the strength anymore to cover my ears and just laid my head onto my arms on the rough, wooden table.
Suddenly the old lady began to hum. They were just simple tunes of only one or two notes. They had no words and therefore bare no memory. They could not hurt.
I lifted my head, laid it down again on the side, observed the old woman with one eye and put my thumb into my mouth, like a human plant sprouting out of the damp ground. Humming had no history and therefore did not hurt. It was something in this dire world to hold onto.
Slowly, slowly, the shadows receded.
Silke Liria©
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