Amora: Stories by Natalia Borges Polesso

Author:Natalia Borges Polesso [Polesso, Natalia Borges]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-05-19T00:00:00+00:00

MARÍLIA WAKES UP

She wears knee-length socks because her feet are cold even in summer. She sits on the edge of the bed and rolls them down—shin, calf, ankle—then stops. She rights herself. Her stomach stops her from bending over. She takes a deep breath, stretches her arms, and finishes the job. She folds her socks and places them under her pillow. They’re for sleeping. Marília may not be sweet, but gazing at her from the other half of our bed, I can’t help loving her.

There goes Marília into the kitchen, and I think of how I will soon be roused by the sound of metal clanging, drawers closing, and the whistling of an old tune we no longer know the lyrics to. I face the window, its blinds still shadowy from twilight, close my eyes, and smile. The racket begins. She doesn’t do it on purpose, her hands just don’t know silence. The door slams, and from the depths of our home, I hear the same old melody. I wonder what song it is. I figure it must be ours.

I know that soon I’ll have to pretend I’m fast asleep, because Marília will return to bed with coffee and some toast and, time permitting, a flower penned on a napkin. Marília likes remote-controlled cars, clothespins, skirts with pockets, and plants. She would never, ever pluck a flower. So she draws them.

The door opens. Marília sits on our bed, without the tray. She touches my leg, and I pretend to have just woken up. Her silhouette is drawn by the now-bright window blinds. I hold her jittery hands and know that something is wrong before even opening my eyes. I ask what the matter is. She tells me she is forgetful. I say we are. She looks at me gloomily and says she made coffee without the grounds and burned the toast. I scrunch up my forehead in confusion. She repeats that she brewed the coffee without the grounds, so there was only boiling water in the coffeepot, and as she poured the water into the coffee mugs, she stood quietly for a moment, perplexed. Which was when the toast burned. She tells me she’s old and forgetful. I say we’re two forgetful old ladies.

I look at her hair, now on my lap. She lies on her side and asks me to cover her feet, “Just my feet,” she says, and open the windows. I stretch my back and arms until I reach the cord for the blinds. The light unveils us: my blemished hands on her white hair. How many years has it been, Marília? How long have we been carrying on this Sunday-morning ritual? I think, but I say nothing. Marília seems to be crying a little. If so, it’s on the inside. She tells me she’s going to get breakfast ready. She gets up and walks away.

No flower this time, I see. I don’t dare ask why. I sip my coffee slowly so that I don’t burn my chapped lips.

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