There, nearby – or perhaps there, a step farther on (depends, my friend, on where you stand now)… beneath a speck of sky, within a droplet of ordinary space, beside some battered fragment of park and weary benches, in one of the years already gone by, she found him.
An abandoned soul, with a story that no longer knew what more to say…
A life trembling toward its end, beneath a sweater that for a few moments longer still held off the cold pressing inside – and halted the fragile vein, so it no longer pulsed in vain.
She found him, as others had found him before… Hands clasped together, holding on to a forgotten hope that someone was waiting. That someone might still greet him. A shred of a wreck, filled with the shadows of once-beauty in a lost man.
So this is what radiance becomes, when brilliance comes to rest.
For wretched old age devours all… all withers. Then it creeps slyly close and whispers: “enough is enough.”
She approached him gently, careful not to stir the dust… not to disturb his breath.
An old man, sightless – staring somewhere.
What is your name? (she asked)
Silence.
Your surname?
Silence.
Do you have family? Anyone who cares for you?
Silence.
How old are you? Do you work?
Silence.
Are you retired?
Silence.
Why do you keep your eyes closed?
Silence.
Where do you live? Do you have a home?
Silence.
The notebook slips from her lap as she lowers herself to the ground beside him. A sigh breaks free. One hand gathers his, while the other smooths a few strands of hair across his forehead. Fingers wander gently, finding skin warm yet thin. They pause at an old scar that had slept upon his left temple. And she understands: this is not what she had known before… within him lies a deeper understanding, some greater truth than merely a “lost case.”
Are you afraid?
Yes… Always.
Of what?
I do not know.
Are you afraid now? – her palms press around his hand, lifting it to her lips.
Less so.
Do you have anyone?
I had.
Where are they now?
I do not know.
What do you occupy yourself with?
Watching.
Why, then, do you not open your eyes?
I cannot see… not for a long time now. – his hand lifted weakly toward his earlobe, as though to scratch, but strength fails – I loved to watch so much, you know.
Is there anyone we could call? A relative, children… a friend?
Friend! – his mouth breaks into a grin, eyelids lifting. Joy flares. Eyes long gone missing are uncovered. – I had a friend. Yes, I had. Beneath a bridge. Two! They brought me food. Once, I ate chocolate.
She wanted to burst. Tears screamed behind her gaze. A longing rose – to run, to lift him in her arms, to cry out, “Help, please! Help! There is no one!”
Yet she held back… the notebook was drawn closer to her knees, the pencil lifted… while her other hand still warmed his frail fist. In her mind replayed the lesson: “…when a patient responds positively to a certain word, or concept – continue from there, follow the given module…”
All right then… can you tell me, what is a friend for?
To hold you steady while you walk through a storm.
What is love for?
To lean a ladder against a gloomy cloud.
And courage? What is it for?
To climb from that cloud up to the cold Moon.
What is the heart for?
To join the stars with chalk while standing on the mountain of the Moon.
And the soul? What is it for?
To write among the stars: “It hurt… oh, how it hurt. But still it was beautiful… and I would go through it all again.”
And all this sorrow, what is it for?
So that when you write that, you add “Thank you” – place a period, and sign your name.
So, then… is that the purpose of life?
I do not know… perhaps not. But it is the most beautiful beauty.
She looked at him as she had never looked at anyone. In human absurdity she found a shard of essence… a man who might have been an old man, or an old man who had never let go of the stars, nor of the child within him. She embraced him, held on until the grasses ceased to rustle… pressed him close to her chest, longing to strip away everything made of clay. To call him “father” or “son”… anything, just to shield from darkness. To carry away, to rest upon the softest pillows, to dress in silken pajamas.
To make up for all… all he had never had. Tears slipped down her face, scattering the fragile sunlight. She turned; a colleague was near, and said:
“Bring chocolate, please.”
Milisav S. Popović
Milisav S. Popović is a Montenegrin writer whose books have found many devoted readers, while his weekly columns (published in the daily newspaper Dan since 2009) are warmly followed throughout the region of the former Yugoslavia.
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