2011 almost 2012

The light is coming through. I see big windows that face East. The sun is out. I listen to music as if I could reassure myself that this loneliness is peaceful. The movie showed me Paris: a multifaceted Paris. I see the black and white picture standing against the wall. More than ever I find within me a type of sadness that has always accompanied me.  Somehow to sing at the top of my lungs these sad songs from our past comforts me. It's not that I am unhappy. There's a brand new year ahead of us. We have hope. But there's this unsettling silence that whispers in my head. And I frown. Maybe life is just like Paris, the movie. The continuum slices of lives that are related. I drove by La Estancia Argentina last night. I remembered how we said hello to each other from afar. It was an uncomfortable hello. At the time we were two strangers. Today, we are lovers. I am exiling myself in the possibility of finding you. You never read my writing. You don't know the serious me. You are away. And I wait for a window in time to reconnect. Where did we leave things? How are we going to reconnect? You tell me I am different than what I was when we started again this time around. Maybe. I wonder about what you see. After ten years not spending New Year's Eve with my father, I went to her house to be there with him. And "there" was a place where I was alone and confronted with my own motherhood issues. I reasoned: it's my obligation to go and be there with my dad. But somehow my dad and I lose each other in the ways of talking. Last night wasn't any different. My sister-in-law even asked me, if it wasn't for your father, would you have come with us? I pondered, maybe. I think so. I hesitate with the certainty of knowing that chances are I would have stayed home last night. I guess I lied. There I was, a happy, smiley individual - at first - who was shrinking in a foreigner land. The land of babies and families and happiness. A storm came. And when I saw my niece sleeping, there was this tiny little tear dropping at the corner of my eyes. And nobody saw it because their were all busy living their happy lives. I recollect: I move from one chair to the other to be closer to the conversation. They are talking about soccer. I hesitate to participate. That table seems so crowded. Noisy, even. But I take a chance and I ask a question. That's enough. I leave and move to a safer place. But a storm holds me inside. I ponder. We have five minutes left. I get up and go kiss Nina and wish her a happy 2012. Nina is a blank page. What follows is an overwhelming battle. Timid demonstrations of affection. A father and a daughter who are distant and feel awkward. Maybe speaking Portuguese redeems us a little from being embarrassed in public. Soon after you call me from Argentina. I mumble. You caught me off guard or is it that I still feel awkward in this new role? We talk, briefly. I then find the time to listen to the music they are playing. A man is playing the guitar. He struggles with the singing. I don't offer to help. I get the keys. I say goodbye. I say thank you. I kiss people good night and my brother takes me to my car. I tell him I love him. My dad is behind us. I wasn't aware of his presence. I look at the sky. It's cold. So many stars out there. I wish I could have a bed outdoors. I leave the parking lot listening to my tango and I drive past La Estancia Argentina. I think of you.