Not a single whisper could be heard
Even the rackety ceiling fan
Turned a blind eye and kept quiet
I felt the denseness in the air.
As if blinded by heavy fog
I roamed the house
Craving an encounter.
Sitting down I stared at her picture
There among the dusty books
Postcards with addresses I did not recognize
She reigned in my bookshelves
The same way she had done in my life.
I had placed a chair solemnly
As if inviting her to sit and visit
With her scarf still thrown on the side.
The old carved sculpture stood regal
An ancient soldier …
Waiting for its mistress’s order.
My monologue took center stage
I pleaded with her
A sign … just give me a sign…
Which God should I pray to?
When do I begin?
Where can I find him?
Manuel A. López