I Know It's Not So

I know it is not so but I have the clear feeling that at any moment you will open the door with your noisy key ring, and I will hear distinctly the off-key sound of your slow and heavy steps that no longer drag slowly through my living room hall which is now silent, mute in its halftones. I know it's not so but you will put down your bag stuffed with papers in confusion, on the table set for two even though we are four, but two of us will be in the bedroom and won't want to dine, but we will steal from your plate, and you'll get upset but you don't know how to fight, and the argument will end with the providential increase in the volume of the television, that now is full of silly programs because nothing is fun anymore. Life drags on, empty in its own apathy. You will talk about your day, and you'll ask about ours, and I'll be in a hurry, going out to some rehearsal. I'll shout that I can't right now, that tomorrow I won't go out and in the morning, making the strong, black coffee, we'll talk about the script, you'll give me some ideas I'll love to slip into the context althought now this actress no longer cares how she performs because the fantasy is gone, the scene has no more magic and just repeats itself alone on the stages I no longer trod. You'll ask, and I'll help you put on your socks having you sit on the bed while our cat snores in a light ending sleep. Yet, you'll play with me in your special way that makes any single day seems like Christmas, with your salad sauce that no one any longer tastes. The 25th hides its face at midnight, Jesus is not born and the miracle is not the same. On Valentine's Day you will buy two roses, one of them you'll give to mom and the other one is always mine for I'll always be your little girl who doesn't have a boyfriend anymore, who has no joy, and who counts the hours of the day just to know the day has gone. I know it's not so but I'll see you at any moment when I lay my eyes on our garden, missing your confident hands pruning its dead branches like now it is dead our house. And like me, our cat waits for you every night at eight o'clock under the doorjamb, on the rug in the hall, to say you are welcome, to be happy you are home, but our expectations fail, for your arrival is delayed, you won't arrive at all, and there's no more future for there's no more noise of your key ring in the knob.