By Anouk Pardon & illustrated by Sasha Varpahovsky
The woman on the train
had big watery eyes
and whenever she laughed
she rocked back and forth
and threw herself back into the tattered, red seat
so that strands of dark grey hair fell out of her bun.
Her girlish laugh did not fit her wrinkly face
and the many lines around her eyes
but I thought she was adorable.
There was so much gentleness in her and her fingers
her voice and her smiling mouth
which could not stop talking about her husband and her children
all grown
and the small village she lived in as a young girl
this little village next to this big, silent forest which would never quiet down.
It was summer and we looked like we were burning
like our hair was on fire and nothing could extinguish it
not even the hot sand beneath our feet
the piercing wind that made us all teary
or the water in front of us
which stretched itself like a vast, silvery plane right below the horizon.
It looked like we could skate on it.
Like it was solid and it would hold us
and we could walk on it like water striders
carefully and light-footed
to some place beyond
or simply
to the other side of the pond.
My friend was watching her shadow
intently and affectionately
as if she loved it.
And I thought about sleeping cats in the sun
about us lying on that big, green carpet in the living room
just one year ago
when the sun wandered from east to west
and you could follow its journey by
trailing speckles of golden light on the warm kitchen floor
which looked like forgotten, yellow confetti from a party just the night before.
Everything was so pretty and beautiful
when we were tightrope walkers
and lazy without any shame
when there was nothing to do
but so much to take in
so we woke up, breathed and went back to dream.
