Freehand machine embroidery on second hand cotton dress. Dress Size: M
On the steps, I was playing vague.
I saw her trying to take a picture of the leaf I had attached to the wall.
She put her phone aside and began to run her fingers over it.
I smiled as I pretended to tie my shoes.
Others, distracted, passed through us. She was still there.
I walked on but stopped short soon after.
I turned around and saw a coat with too-long sleeves and bark-like hands.
"You moved me."
I immediately realized it would be useless to pretend I didn't know. I smiled awkwardly.
"Now that I see you up close, you look just like it. Would you like some coffee?"
I spent that afternoon on a red chair at Lucia's house, we told each other everything.
The red chair, the coffee and I absorbed everything in a church-like silence.
Her students, her mother's sewing machine, books, basil, Palestine.
As I listened to her I tried to understand the provenance of those fragments of land scattered around the house, on the shelves, on the kitchen hood. Threads collected for almost a century.
She could no longer travel but that day, with me, she said she did.
And so did I.
And I still have to return.
She left me alone for a few moments and I lost myself in watching reflections cast by dishes on the wrinkled walls.
Walls invaded by plants, satiated, like me at that moment. We were all dancing.
She returned accompanied by a smile and slipped something into my hands that I will not say.
"Your leaves remain on me, I will not forget you."
On me, Lucia.
Freehand machine embroidery on second hand cotton dress. Dress Size: M
On the steps, I was playing vague.
I saw her trying to take a picture of the leaf I had attached to the wall.
She put her phone aside and began to run her fingers over it.
I smiled as I pretended to tie my shoes.
Others, distracted, passed through us. She was still there.
I walked on but stopped short soon after.
I turned around and saw a coat with too-long sleeves and bark-like hands.
"You moved me."
I immediately realized it would be useless to pretend I didn't know. I smiled awkwardly.
"Now that I see you up close, you look just like it. Would you like some coffee?"
I spent that afternoon on a red chair at Lucia's house, we told each other everything.
The red chair, the coffee and I absorbed everything in a church-like silence.
Her students, her mother's sewing machine, books, basil, Palestine.
As I listened to her I tried to understand the provenance of those fragments of land scattered around the house, on the shelves, on the kitchen hood. Threads collected for almost a century.
She could no longer travel but that day, with me, she said she did.
And so did I.
And I still have to return.
She left me alone for a few moments and I lost myself in watching reflections cast by dishes on the wrinkled walls.
Walls invaded by plants, satiated, like me at that moment. We were all dancing.
She returned accompanied by a smile and slipped something into my hands that I will not say.
"Your leaves remain on me, I will not forget you."
On me, Lucia.
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