THE FIRST PHOTOGRAPH
In an early summer’s night, I told him that I was in love with him. I didn’t use those words though, as they convey wishes and demands that I couldn’t make on him.
He would, I knew, forget about me.
He would forget to stay in touch, in the way only men are allowed to do. Being an immigrant, I wasn’t anyone he would hold onto in his life, and I could only expect politeness and courtesy from him.
As I walked from the pub to the station – as I walked away – I had to stop at pedestrian lights. I was surrounded by the luminous, blue haze of the minutes in between the sunset and the nightfall. That view got ingrained in me, much like his outline had done. But despite the wonder and the desire that traced his features within me – whether it is in my heart or in my mind, I can’t say because my whole being stutters near him – those images fade.
The lights changed, and I walked across the road. I hoped and feared that I would never see him again.
Ever since I have lived as if at the end of my life.
© Carita Silander