Questa è la tua canzone, Marinella

She sang her last song.  Every time I heard her sing, it was her last song.  “I love the same way,” she would whisper; “as if there will never be another one, another love which will make my morning cigarillo burn as evenly”.  Till the next love, the next morning, the next strike of a wooden match upon the side of a matchbox.

Her shoes were always a size too large.  “One cannot sing in Italian wearing tight shoes,” she justified.  Her nails were always bitten; her eyes filled of the moment.  Rarely of yesterday, never of domani.  Just of the moment when she lived her last moments.  Till the next song, the next new hug, the cold morning alone on the balcony with a bitten lip.  With a cigarillo hanging from the burning lip.

She did not care.  She was all comfort.  She was all for herself.  Unless she was for someone else.  Then she was all his comfort.  Till he left.  Till she asked him not to remember her.  For she had not remembered anything before him.  He was the only one who counted today.  That is why tomorrow should have no memories.  For she was going to have coffee alone, on the balcony, looking at the city with cast iron balconies.

A singer should sing. And one should listen as if it is the last song.  For in fact it is.  The next one will be sung by who had already sang her last song.  Who had kissed her last man.  Has looked at the city with her morning eyes.  Eyes she closed at night to see his surprise.  To hear his excuse.  And then hear him run down the stairs.  As if the city was on fire.  The city between smoky hills.

“I would like to sleep, once, under a pomegranate tree,” she said.  “I have not slept, really deeply slept for years.  And I have never seen a pomegranate tree.” 

That was the last time I saw her.  It was decades ago.  It was a time away from time.  When she sang her last song.  Inhaled deeply upon her cigarillo.  Held her breath and looked at the night.  To only realize that there were no pomegranate trees near the city.  Just mountains, tall as hills.  And men who ran down the stairs without letting her know if the city was on fire.

… I always think of her when I see women wearing shoes a size too large.  As if they still hope to grow into their own limits.  Again, each time, for the last time.

November 21, 2007

©Vahé Kazandjian, 2013