My 150th birthday.
She’s sitting on her rocking chair all day long, watching the same people crossing front her door.
Days go by, night trough night, moon by moon, and she’s sitting on her rocking chair all day long, watching the same people growing old crossing front her door.
Her hair is sweetly white, her face full of wrinkles. Deep dark eyes, thin pale lips, not sure of making a smile or a sad expression; delicate soft hands holding.
Her legs ache, her back ache, her hands ache, her foot ache. And she’s sitting in her rocking chair still.
She’s all alone and thinks – happy birthday dear, another year, happy birthday dear Leonel-.
Dear Leonel has sons, dear Leonel has grandchildren, dear Leonel has great grandchildren, dear Leonel had a dear Fred, passed away long ago. She’s sitting on her rocking chair still.
Death has forgotten her for it has had to take her a few years ago.
She calls out her cat, her only company, looks at its eyes, and remembers.
Singing lullabies recalls her infancy, now whistling recalls her youth and crying recalls her loving marriage. Cries in vain, she knows he won’t come back.
Then she smiles remembering faces, young faces, grown faces, her sons’ faces, her great and grand children’s faces. Even though she has loose strength to play and enjoy with them, dear Leonel loves them, and they love her back.
Still today she’s all alone sitting on her rocking chair. But she’s ok. All alone.
Her cat looks at her eyes, if it could only understand why her eyes where so deep.
Deep in memories, some happy, some sad. Full of live, full of death, full of weakness, full of strength.
But those memories keep her alive, for every wrinkle she has it’s a different experience in life.
And every ache it’s another pill, every new pain it’s a new medical recipe. She doesn’t care about technology; she doesn’t care if that’s the cause of her so prolonged life, what she cares about its how long she’ll be next to her dear Fred.
Counting every day she makes a scratch on the rocking chair’s arm, since that fatal day. However she doesn’t want death, she wants life, she wants dear Fred alive.
From the rocking chair she can see an old portrait of her with a tall not so handsome man, with a big smile and black hair. With dear Fred holding hands.
Delicate soft hands holding.
It’s not medicine what keeps dear Leonel alive, its life itself, its love.
She’s sitting on her rocking chair all day long, watching the same people growing old crossing front her door. She looks back fondly. She looks back sadly.
And still she looks forward hopefully, just living day by day, for the years dear Fred had taken from her.
She’s all alone and thinks - happy birthday dear, another year, happy birthday dear Leonel-.
She watches the world go old with her from her front door.
It’s not medicine what keeps dear Leonel alive, its love. Its love.
