Elena Knows

Maybe tomorrow, when she opens her eyes and takes her first pill of the morning, she’ll know. Or when she takes the second one. Maybe.

That’s enough for today, petting a cat.

In spite of this body, in spite of my dead daughter, Elena says, crying, I still choose to live, is that arrogance? Not long ago I was told I was arrogant. Don’t keep the names other people give you, Elena.

She never said that. Sometimes it’s easier to shout than to cry.

No, I think she couldn’t stand that you had it.

Another person’s body, sometimes, can be terrifying.

Your daughter went because it was raining and because there was something that scared her more than the rain. Me, Elena says.

I loved her and she loved me, you know? I don’t doubt it, says Isabel. In our own way, of course, Elena clarifies,

Rita stood motionless watching the paper as it blazed, crackled, and danced until it changed colour, melted away, turned to ashes, and finally, went to the place that fire goes when it burns out.

Hug someone you love. Hug. She doesn’t remember the last time she hugged someone or was hugged by someone. She can’t remember.