The change of love

It was my first move and I was hoping it would be my last. You weren't there anymore. I arranged the boxes for the move according to the common elements. T-shirts, shirts, shorts, long pants, socks, underpants, philosophy books, history books, social anthropology books, novels, magazines...; all my life in their order and classification. I numbered them and wrote them down on the table I had created on my laptop.

I had the feeling that each box was a brick from a wall that had fallen and that I would have to rebuild it, like those giant monuments that they move from one place to another, and then rebuild them piece by piece.

Yes, I know you were irritated by my tendency to order, meticulousness and detail. You said that I had a little compulsive disorder, that it irritated you and that many times it drove you crazy, but that order gave me peace and quiet.

I was leaving behind the known, which was part of my life until yesterday. I had the feeling that my past was erased like the traces we leave behind when we walk along the shore of a beach, where the sea sweeps away and makes them disappear forever.

I left for the end our old photographs, the ones we took in the countries we travelled to, France, Russia, Argentina, Peru, Portugal, Italy, Brazil, Germany, Turkey, Tunisia, the Sahara, Madagascar..., and the incredible route 66. Do you remember? An unforgettable and incredible trip that I want to take again with Mateo when he finishes his studies.

Then I began to sort the last box, the one of your letters, I ordered them in chronological order. The first ones, the ones you send us when we are slowly forging our love, letters from the summer of 1982, 1983, 1984 and the following years, all full of complicity and mutual love. I opened the first one in the summer of'82, dated July 16. I read it, I shuddered, and I couldn't stop myself from crying. I sat on the floor and ran my index finger through every stroke, every word of your letter until I came to your signature and stayed there. That signature with the blue-blurry stroke, which, perhaps, had escaped from a pen almost without ink and with a bitten cap. There you were, at your firm, as you had always been, this time unable to escape, as you did that summer of lies and misunderstandings. Then I remembered our love, that passionate love that made us fly, that made us so happy and that filled us with a joy that I have never felt again and I am not sure if I will experience it again because I loved you madly.

I got up and kept your letters and your photographs in their respective boxes, hoping to reconstitute a new castle with or without a princess to try to love again.

Image source: propia and @talentclub

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