H is still following his routines, driving to places, chatting with the postman, reading the cards bringing condolences for the beautiful and angel wife. But things have a different quality now. A dreaminess…
He forgotten the keys this morning on the car after returning from the bakery. Didn’t even notice until John, the neighbour, rang the bell with a face carrying the sort of shame, that someone -who without intending witnesses to someone else’s private business, would feel. John knew that pain should always perfectly and fully be kept behind the doors and these doors should not be disturbed. He saw his pain when he opened the door and a confusion on his face, expanding to his forehad. He pretended the forgotten keys did not imply how lost he was, how much he was suffering with his loss. This was the manner they were taught in the land of the Queen. Some others would scream on the street and cry all together with tears wetting the clothes that were already tired of wrapping the bodies in pain. He and John, did not question of course the other way, but shared the pain without voicing it.
Is it why H went into the depths of his inner tunnels and looked for something soothing? Did he cry at all anyway? Yes, a bit. His eyes were wet in the graveyard, he watched the funeral from quite a distant, at a distance from his body. This was the only way he could stand the pain. Since then he is not sure if he, fully, perfectly was able to become a whole again. He suspected that he didnt want to return into his body fully, perfectly. But something more had changed: memories became unreliable, time flew in an unfamiliar way.
H still goes to the bakery around the corner on Sundays to buy the rosemary bread for a breakfast in the garden of the magic seeds. He brews his tea in the white teapot with red dots on. Hosepipe is curled in the corner like a sleeping snake mourning for her living hands. H is in that scene now and he is watching what is happening from a world, that exists in somewhere in the galaxy deep down, while pouring his tea. H is slowly finding himself a spot in that root world, world in the deep down, where things are perceived with a dreamy mind.
H suspects that he is looking for her filaments in the galaxy, tiny little filaments in the immense. H knows of whereabouts of her body, but not the soul.
He visits her in the graveyard once a week. With chrysanthemums… and talks about how he is losing himself, how he is getting erased cell by cell from the earth, how he is not sure who he is anymore.
H couldn’t finish his breakfast. The neighbour John rang the bell and handed his car keys. H wonders was it not before the breakfast. H says thank you, a visible confusion spreads from his eyes to his forehead. He notices the shame on John’s face, the same shame he saw before the breakfast.
H is struggling with the sense of time, his memories are tired of being revisited, memories that has never existed floods into his life.
Time is curled, like the hosepipe in the garden, needs her living hands. I wonder if I can ever make it out to the light walking though the tunnel of time. Why do we walk horizontally, can I not climb it?
H again wants to stop his mind, enter into silence, maybe then he can overcome the time. He wants to silence all his stories that contains time.
Can he ever stop thinking? Can he ever still his mind? First time from tip to toe he longs for silence where the stories cease.
H inhales deeply. H exhales hush…
H for hush.