Ana Toader

He flashed into my existence yesterday evening, in some village, somewhere on the map, as the car passed him by.

In the wheelchair, he was dark and wore white and his limbs were thin like disjointed matchsticks against his body. Muscles that never had a chance to form. Words never learned. Perception strangled.

His arms were extended high, towards the red setting sun imposed on the summer sky, as beautiful as any Dali painting.  There was such divine rapture on his face, such grace in his posture that no Giselle in frail dress could ever match. To no audience and with little means, he expressed himself.

My healthy right side of the brain will never understand that particular happiness, but it seemed ballet and revelation all in one. A perfect moment to witness and widen the boundaries of my heart.

Follow the sound of footsteps into my house

….skeletal undulating ceramic wrought iron algae seashell ossein….

This house is ribbed. It has the coolness of a hollow whale and even in scorching summer, I stay aware. The house might be dead now, but it was alive before, if you sense the difference.

Everyone else is dead. I swim upwards through degrees of blue with my breakfast of marmalade and crackers.

Through the house’s gills, I can feel your breath in all rooms, hotter than the sun, calling me for lust or prayer.

Days go by. I wonder why it is that you chose me, half Spanish half English spinster, to live with. Do all suns come to die in apartments, hiding their supernova terror from the world?

No matter how many doors I open, you’re never there. Attentive reptile, you crawl away before I can reach you, so I drag my old feet from room to room, with a shaking tea cup in my hand. Chamomile. I imagine you are a blonde god. I would’ve liked a blonde son, I think, fruit of kisses and sheets. Oh well.

pictures of Casa Batllo in Barcelona