The Thaw
A story of loss and revelation
I had not chosen to leave; she had chosen for me. There had been no alternative, every time her name was mentioned — Elena — I had palpitations — even the smell of cigarettes reminded me of the taste of her tongue, the lightly smoked smell of her hair. A switch had been turned off in me, I no longer planned — but just allowed myself to be carried on the flow, on the tide of other people’s plans. I was lucky to be caught up in work, a discarded but still useful hulk, tossed this way and that with the current.
I found himself washed up in Madrid, filling myself with work. No one mentioned her name, or if they did, I did not understand. Even the affect of the smell of burning tobacco waned — it had to in a country where everybody smoked. At the weekends I wandered the dingy and unwholesome back streets of the city, seeking the sad and the filth. I could not bare to see the happiness of couples walking arm in arm — I dare not feel the touch of a hand of friendship, knocking on the walls of my defences.
I was alone, even my spirit was drained, and as I walked empty through the streets, no one spoke to me, save drug pushers standing in doorways, emaciated with the shadow of their addiction beneath their eyes, chanting “hashish hashish” like a prayer. I preferred the hookers, standing on the street corners, their wasted bodies sagging out of meagre clothes, the younger ones having succumbed to the chant of the hashish or crack man. At least they smiled at me, and made me feel wanted — a thick, glossy red smile want, as false as the love I knew I could not buy. Sometimes they spoke to me, and I understood — not from their words — what they said. I never replied, what was the point, I did not know the Spanish for “how much for a lifetime of love” — although if I could, I would paid every penny that I would ever possess.
It had been a hard winter for Madrid. A bitter wind blew down from the snow-capped mountains that formed the horizon to the north. At night I slept huddled in a poorly heated apartment — as I drifted to sleep, I dreamed of her. Not just the look of her green eyes, but the savoury smell of hair on the pillow, and the heat of embrace. Imagining that it was her, I held the pillow tightly, cuddling up to it, thankful for the small amount of comforting warmth it could provide.
For a long time, I did not known how I felt. I was not angry, there was just a numbness inside, a collection of feelings, frozen from the moment, in the pub, that she had told me. Sometimes there was a stab of pain, frost bite, when something reminded me, or threatened to thaw my emotions.
But now as the spring comes, and the snow starts to melt on the mountains, filling the streams that rush gurgling downwards like children at play — so too do my tears start to thaw, and flow down onto the pillow. The nights alternate between anger, love and despair. The anger of how she betrayed me, the love I still feel, rekindling memories, and the despair of knowing absolutely that she has abandoned me.
In the mountains the flowers cannot resist the coming of spring — the seeds cannot remain frozen underground, but must come forth growing with new life, filling the world with vitality and beauty. So too a seed within me germinates a spark of hope, a running of water within my streams.
As with all growing things, I am attracted to the light. High up in the mountains I sit, feet hanging down over the rocky edge, spruces stretching up to the blue skies around me, shaking off their winter coats of snow, stretching down the steep valley wall to Cercedilla, lying lazily in the valley below. On the ground around me, amongst the rocks, and between the young shoots of plants pushing forth, patches of snow remain, dwindling under the heat of the late afternoon sun.
In the sky, I look up, and see a solitary eagle flying. Carried high, upwards on thermals, gliding above the treetops and circling Cercedilla below. At that moment, I too could fly, above the towns, above the villages, over the mountains, and over the sea. And yes, it is time to return, carried on wings, soaring, full of hope, back over the sea.
