Nights, I wake up and walk barefoot through the apartment I rent. Tonight, I go into the kitchen and look out the window to the south. Venus is shining above a building’s antenna. A year has passed since Aunt Nana died, and I try to imagine her present here, just like in the kitchen of my childhood, rattling the pots and plates in her everyday bustle. I imagine that I’m still in the middle of it all, not doing anything, just being there beside her.

Before the funeral car arrived, the few relatives gathered around the coffin said a few words of farewell. I wanted to say some too, but I couldn’t. I wanted to talk about all the things Aunt Nana taught me, and I wanted to talk about silence. Aunt Nana was quiet, and all those afternoons in the kitchen together, she showed me silence, how beautiful it is. That’s what I would have liked to say, but I didn’t. With my mother there, it didn’t seem like the right moment. But more than that, the truth is I said nothing because I didn’t dare to speak. It would have meant affirming that I had learned something from her, it would have meant comparing myself with her. And I am different from Aunt Nana. I wasn’t like her. I wouldn’t have taken responsibility, I wouldn’t have done anything she did. And who could do that? Worry about everyone’s lives but your own. Give yourself to others, be forgotten by others, and be grateful. I was not about to be grateful; at seventeen years old I decided I had to worry about myself. I thought I could leave my family, leave anyone I had to, take off for good and buck the consequences. I had the hope I would be able to forget. I longed for the freedom of a heroine, a life of my own, a happy one. Back then I ridiculously faced down the world, sure I could defeat it and emerge unscathed.

American Spirit

American Spirit