[Instrumental]
Prose attached to the song:
Your phone calls were always enigmatic. I never knew if, after you hung up, you would tell me we had a dinner planned at the Circolo, another date with a politician or an invitation to the latest exhibition. Sometimes, you were just laughing with a friend, discussing paintings with the Arita salesman or crying to Dr. Lesama as if he was your psychologist
Strange times they were. Your attorney called me exclusively to tell me that I had to be prepared. “She spent the last twenty Mother’s Days alone and Christmas is coming,” he said. “I’ll make sure she has the best holidays of her life,” I promised, as I heard the heavy spring raindrops hitting my window. After ninety minutes or so, you asked me to go to the living room to tell me about your phone call. I have to admit it was an often-tiresome activity, as I could hear it all from my room. However, things were different this time – your conversation was whispered and there weren’t any echoes bouncing from wall to wall. “Two of my dreams are about to become reality,” you said with confidence and excitement. “We’re going to meet a sorcerer tomorrow.”
The rain was still raving and you were making cookies as I was looking up how to get to our destination. I was a bit worried, to say the least; You were having a rough time with emotions lately. A sorcerer? He swore he had the power to take you through a narrow road to your interior and let all your pain out so effectively you would walk again. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what Dr. Lesama said multiple times: your hips were irreparably broken. I don’t know why, but you still had hope… Then there was the Danish man prediction, which I did believe strongly. However, this trip didn’t feel as exciting as others – there was something odd in your face, as if you were forcing yourself, as if you were running out of options or things to hold on to
The morning was quiet and the sun finally appeared after taking several days off and leaving the sky to grey clouds. I thought that would make me feel better, but it didn’t. We were in a bus straight to Catán, making jokes as usual and trying not to look so haute société, which caused me the first laughs and smiles of the day. But, right in the middle of the trip, in a sparse neighborhood by Route 3, one of your wheels suddenly came off. Your reaction was miraculous; mine was exasperated. You felt it was a sign that you wouldn’t need a wheelchair anymore, that it was the day your body would function as you wished again. You didn’t dare to try walking in a moving bus, though. I told the driver to stop so I could go to an ironmongery nearby, to which he replied it was impossible so we had to get off. There I was, in a scene that felt apocalyptic, holding you with both arms like a baby, tears tracing through your cheeks, kissing my face in gratitude. The sunlight was hot and I was sweating. I made you sit on the nearest bus stop while I was fixing the wheelchair with the ironmongers and we could. We waited for another bus and continued until we finally arrived to the sorcerer’s house – it wasn’t an apartment in Callao Ave., the Zirkel or a casa quinta in Vicente López, nor did I expect it to be so. I carried you through the grass and entered. It had good lighting due to the many holes in the roof and the window-less frames in the walls. The sorcerer, a brown-bearded man, welcomed us gently. I left you with him and only hoped for the best. Ten minutes in, I heard you shouting and complaining. Before I could enter again to see what was going on, you were getting out of the house and told me it was all a charade. “This man knows nothing! Let’s go,” you exclaimed. “He said he didn’t expect me to be a lady in her 70s,” you explained as you were riding your wheelchair fast by yourself. “Me? Impossible to ever walk again?!...”
Partly, I was weirdly happy because I knew I was right, but then I started to think: What if I broke the spell or made the prediction get lost by fixing the wheelchair an hour ago? Luckily, this thought didn’t knock on your mind. You still saw me as your savior. The kid that had nothing better to do than witnessing the dreams and delusions of an old rich woman
Home again. I took you to your bathroom, where you spent a long time. I prepared your fanciest sleepwear so you felt more comfortable after taking a bath, went to buy bread from the Alvear Palace bakery, put butter in your favorite silver butter dish and poured imported tea in your bone china cups. I put a jasmine on the table and opened the windows a bit so we could hear the city and feel at home at last. I was waiting for you in the living room but realized you were taking a longer bath than usual, so I had to go to check. You weren’t there. I ran to your room and there you were with the lights off, all perfumed. You didn’t want to have tea with me. You didn’t want to spend another afternoon living your normal, pearl-embroidered life. From then onwards, you just wanted to sleep and dwell in dreams
Prose attached to the song:
Your phone calls were always enigmatic. I never knew if, after you hung up, you would tell me we had a dinner planned at the Circolo, another date with a politician or an invitation to the latest exhibition. Sometimes, you were just laughing with a friend, discussing paintings with the Arita salesman or crying to Dr. Lesama as if he was your psychologist
Strange times they were. Your attorney called me exclusively to tell me that I had to be prepared. “She spent the last twenty Mother’s Days alone and Christmas is coming,” he said. “I’ll make sure she has the best holidays of her life,” I promised, as I heard the heavy spring raindrops hitting my window. After ninety minutes or so, you asked me to go to the living room to tell me about your phone call. I have to admit it was an often-tiresome activity, as I could hear it all from my room. However, things were different this time – your conversation was whispered and there weren’t any echoes bouncing from wall to wall. “Two of my dreams are about to become reality,” you said with confidence and excitement. “We’re going to meet a sorcerer tomorrow.”
The rain was still raving and you were making cookies as I was looking up how to get to our destination. I was a bit worried, to say the least; You were having a rough time with emotions lately. A sorcerer? He swore he had the power to take you through a narrow road to your interior and let all your pain out so effectively you would walk again. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what Dr. Lesama said multiple times: your hips were irreparably broken. I don’t know why, but you still had hope… Then there was the Danish man prediction, which I did believe strongly. However, this trip didn’t feel as exciting as others – there was something odd in your face, as if you were forcing yourself, as if you were running out of options or things to hold on to
The morning was quiet and the sun finally appeared after taking several days off and leaving the sky to grey clouds. I thought that would make me feel better, but it didn’t. We were in a bus straight to Catán, making jokes as usual and trying not to look so haute société, which caused me the first laughs and smiles of the day. But, right in the middle of the trip, in a sparse neighborhood by Route 3, one of your wheels suddenly came off. Your reaction was miraculous; mine was exasperated. You felt it was a sign that you wouldn’t need a wheelchair anymore, that it was the day your body would function as you wished again. You didn’t dare to try walking in a moving bus, though. I told the driver to stop so I could go to an ironmongery nearby, to which he replied it was impossible so we had to get off. There I was, in a scene that felt apocalyptic, holding you with both arms like a baby, tears tracing through your cheeks, kissing my face in gratitude. The sunlight was hot and I was sweating. I made you sit on the nearest bus stop while I was fixing the wheelchair with the ironmongers and we could. We waited for another bus and continued until we finally arrived to the sorcerer’s house – it wasn’t an apartment in Callao Ave., the Zirkel or a casa quinta in Vicente López, nor did I expect it to be so. I carried you through the grass and entered. It had good lighting due to the many holes in the roof and the window-less frames in the walls. The sorcerer, a brown-bearded man, welcomed us gently. I left you with him and only hoped for the best. Ten minutes in, I heard you shouting and complaining. Before I could enter again to see what was going on, you were getting out of the house and told me it was all a charade. “This man knows nothing! Let’s go,” you exclaimed. “He said he didn’t expect me to be a lady in her 70s,” you explained as you were riding your wheelchair fast by yourself. “Me? Impossible to ever walk again?!...”
Partly, I was weirdly happy because I knew I was right, but then I started to think: What if I broke the spell or made the prediction get lost by fixing the wheelchair an hour ago? Luckily, this thought didn’t knock on your mind. You still saw me as your savior. The kid that had nothing better to do than witnessing the dreams and delusions of an old rich woman
Home again. I took you to your bathroom, where you spent a long time. I prepared your fanciest sleepwear so you felt more comfortable after taking a bath, went to buy bread from the Alvear Palace bakery, put butter in your favorite silver butter dish and poured imported tea in your bone china cups. I put a jasmine on the table and opened the windows a bit so we could hear the city and feel at home at last. I was waiting for you in the living room but realized you were taking a longer bath than usual, so I had to go to check. You weren’t there. I ran to your room and there you were with the lights off, all perfumed. You didn’t want to have tea with me. You didn’t want to spend another afternoon living your normal, pearl-embroidered life. From then onwards, you just wanted to sleep and dwell in dreams
( Aarn Jkullsson )
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