I was there. Watching her sleep, but I just couldn’t see her face. The moon lighted up her face, but I still couldn’t recognize her. She was on my bed. She seemed really comfortable, as if she as use to sleep in it. The sun rose up, and I saw me. I was her. She was me. I didn´t understand. I tried and tried, I screamed and screamed, but she didn’t listen. I just couldn’t figure it out. So she woke up, with tears in her face. She just opened the drawer, and pulled out the revolver. She set it next to the night lamp, got out of bed, and set and old vinyl on: Frank Sinatra.
He showed up, brighter than ever, in his pajamas, with colored cheeks. He was jumping in the bed, just 5 years old. She smiled, and I could saw the tears she wanted to throw. She hid the gun. She hugged him. Asked for sorrow. They went both for some breakfast –Sinatra still playing- , so they went dancing.
I was smiling, but somehow I just wanted to hug her hard. I couldn’t talk to her. She just wouldn’t listen to me. Neither can she see me. But her son, he was gorgeous. Full of life. She took some vintage photographs of him, he played with the camera, and took some too.
They went for some ice-cream, Ben & Jerry’s, Chocolate Fudge Brownie. Her favorite. Somebody called her. She wouldn’t answer the phone. Instead, she turned it off. I just don´t understand people who wants a mobile, but they will never answer it.