Return

It is the time when people cycle to work. In the station hall they rub their eyes once more. I move between people to whom sleep still sticks. I imagine their beds, which they slept in an hour ago. In each house there is a room which is reserved for silence.

I take the bus to my hometown. I, I was the last one to leave the parental home. It is not as difficult for the first child to leave as it is for the last child to do so.

I get off at a bus stop on the outskirts of the village. I prefer my own pace.

I count the trees. I am looking at the clouds. Yes, I am looking for a cloud that I saw here years ago. I am saddened by the sight of the truncated willows. The branches once connected heaven and earth with each other.

New developments.

I pass my old school. New classrooms and a gymnasium were constructed around the main building. I am moved by the difference in colours of the buildings.

We are passers-by. The lucky ones are passing by mirrors.

A boy is trying to catch his tame bird. He walks around a small public green square to get  the bird to leave in a certain direction. But the bird hops under the bushes, back and forth. The boy is shouting. he makes begging gestures. He gives up when he notices me. He looks at me and says: ‘ I have to go to school now. I will come back later.’

If he had asked for my help, I would have given it to him.  The bird has a yellow beak. His wings are shortened. I see him. He is coming at me. I am helpless.

It is half past nine. I  am drinking coffee with my parents. My father asks me questions, my mother answers them.

When I am in the bus, I can smile again.  The sun is peeking through the clouds to greet me. I left my parental home on time. Had I stayed there longer, I would have been tormented by questions about "my future".

Hey sweetie, where are you going? Me? Nowhere, sir. I feel flattered by that word ‘sir’’. Shall I tell you something? I'm coming with you. Where to go, sir? With you! To nowhere, silly.  It will be our secret. I've always wanted to share a secret with someone.

I drink a coffee at the station restaurant. I listen to the conversation that three Moroccan men are having at a table next to me.

I am walking on the platform. I lean with my back against the wall. I am waiting like a whore.

I am considering leaving for good. The platform is the right place to think about this.

Well, I would be worried about the vistas, the encounters, the right words to say.  I would be tormenting myself with the question of what is worth remembering. You return and they ask you to tell them what you have seen and experienced.

Do not return, never.

I will leave here when I am sure I will disappear.