PAGES OF THE HEART(Francys Wagner) I was in a small place where there were no shapes or walls, but even so, I felt suffocated. What I perceived was only the penumbra, which does not let me see what is around me. It seemed like a labyrinth from which I didn't know how to get out or how I got in. My breathing quickened. The fear intensified as I felt lost and lonely.

I tried to remember how I got there, but the memory seemed to run away from me. A chill ran through my body, and the feeling of being trapped consumed me. The darkness was uncomfortable, making any glimpse of a way out impossible.

Suddenly, a faint light emerged from a crack above. My eyes were fixated on this fragile hope of escape. With a desperate impulse, I jumped and clung to the edges of non-existent walls, struggling to climb up and reach freedom.
With determination, I managed to stand up and pull myself out of the confinement. My eyes, still sensitised by darkness, adapted to the blinding light of the sun that bathed me.

I found myself in an unfamiliar place. The street was narrow, and a wind blew, sweeping the dry leaves that had fallen from the trees.
The unfamiliar people who passed by me seemed worn, with empty stares and bowed shoulders.

I realised that the desire that drove me to escape was slowly fading, replaced by a feeling of helplessness. I feel out of place in this strange place.

As I walked through the street, a sad melody echoed in the distance, attracting my attention. I followed the sound and came across a small abandoned theatre. Its facade, once certainly was majestic, showed signs of decay.

Curious, I entered the theatre, and I found myself on a stage lit by a single lamp. In the centre were a piano and a man. His nimble fingers played a melancholy tune. His bearded face and the melody were familiar to me.

His music filled the empty theatre, filling the space with a palpable sadness.
I felt a connection with those melodic notes and was transported to a place where my loneliness met beauty. I couldn't help but cry. I slowly left that place, and outside, everything was gone. I got confused, I felt like screaming, I had vertigo, and my body felt like it would collapse...

I wake up frightened and sweating. Sleepy, I look at the bedside clock. 8:30 in the morning. I slept more than I should have. I'm not in the habit of waking up this late. I stand up and open the curtains to the new day, trying to wake up for good. The sun's rays kiss my face, warm my body, and invade my room, painting it with golden tones. The beauty of that light is magnificent, but it is also cruel when I look at myself reflected in the corner mirror. What I see does not please me, and I refuse to recognise the woman who is reflected there.

The mind brings me images of the past, and a sad and nostalgic smile appears on my once voluminous lips. The colour of my hair has paled. It reminds me of winter snow. The salt I use in moderate portions in my food or the sweetener I insist on using in my tea. My skin is thinner. There are a few wrinkles that tell my story.

I close my eyes. I let myself travel in time and find my memories again.
I remember moments I've lived through. The love I had. Oh, how I was desired. Fought over by the boys of the school, from my street, from my neighbourhood, I was so beautiful, 'they said'. I accepted the compliments, but for myself, I thought they were exaggerated. I always saw imperfections when I looked in the mirror. I wanted to have been born with another nose or another colour of eyes—blue, green, violet, or any other colour but brown. I wanted curly hair, like angelic curls.
But on second thought, maybe it would not arouse the interest of the boys. What attracted them was precisely my wild beauty, not a puerile feature. I knew that I provoked passions, and this somehow made me accept what I saw in the mirror. Although they say that what you see in the mirror is not exactly how other people see you, I fell in love a few times. Two, maybe three. But like summer rain, it passed in the blink of an eye.

Ah, the love. I only really loved one man. Just the one who at first wasn't interested in me. You, mon amour...
I chased you with my eyes every time I saw you pass. You were so reserved. You didn't even think you knew I existed. You didn't look at me.
However that was just what I imagined, as I found out later. You pretended not to notice me because you thought you weren't enough for me. You thought you were ugly and dull and that I would never be interested in you. Yet I found you attractive. I think it's because of the air of mystery about you and your shyness. All that attracted me, and the next thing I knew, I was in love with you. No, it wasn't just infatuation. It was love.

Then, at that end-of-year ball at the local club, you approached me and asked me to dance with you. My heart did somersaults at that moment. We stuck together until the end of the party. You and I didn't have eyes for anyone else in that place. We talked for hours outside, in the gardens, under the stars, as if there were only the two of us in the world. And to end the night, we kissed. It was soft and intense. We were sealing our destinies. They said we had nothing to connect us. Those envious people, as if I cared what they thought. You were the man my heart chose.

We were happy for the forty years we stayed together until you were taken by the disease that killed you in a few months. I loved you until the last second you breathed, and I still do, wherever you are. How hard it has been for me since your departure. I feel so alone, despite the couple who are here all the time, who look after the house and the garden, and me or our children who come to visit me from time to time. But our two sons followed their own paths, living their lives. They belong to the world, not to me. I am just their mother.

How quickly time passes. It wasn't so long ago that this house was bustling. Everything's quiet now. This silence bothers me sometimes.

I open my eyes and look at myself reflected in the mirror again. What I see is another version of myself. As I always did when I was alone at home. I would enter my world. I created characters. Every heroine and every female character that came to mind was a version of myself, living other lives. And that's what I'm still doing. Living this new version of me. But I don't like it. I didn't create her. She's an intruder who's taken over my body.

She doesn't take the kids to school anymore or fix her husband's tie before he leaves for the office...
She lives alone. She is a stranger, and I have been trying to escape her for the last two years. I wrote like a madwoman, incessantly, seeking in the character a relief for my pain, a way to get it off my chest. What came out was a novel that I went to a book signing for last night. Actually, it turned out to be a memoir. It was a way I found to survive without you, mon amour, my lover companion, my friend, my confidant, my ground, my everything...

Je aimerais pour toujours... Forever, I will love you...


In the bookshop evening yesterday, I was made up and well dressed, but they could not see who I really am. A character of myself was the image they saw. They even praised me. I felt like a fake.

If you were here now, I would certainly say that I am beautiful, as I have been told all my life, and that what I see in the mirror is fake. That I'm not old. It's just an illusion—a trick of the wicked mirror.

But surely if you were still here, I wouldn't feel old, and maybe I wouldn't even have aged that way.

Just as I have been with you, here I will be, trying to survive as long as I can until my last breath.

I'll be here until the end, when my soul is free from my tired body. And I want to believe that we'll meet again, somewhere, where we'll be young again.

I wonder if the dream I had is a warning. Is it my time to go too? That melody the man was playing in my dream I can remember vaguely, but I am sure it was something similar to what you used to play. Your favourite, Moonlight Sonata, of Beethoven...

The tears well up in my eyes now and stubbornly fall. I let them roll down my face.

I am not depressed; it is only a moment of sadness. It has been happening with a certain frequency lately, but I won't allow it to invade me today. It's such a beautiful day outside. I'm still alive to appreciate what's beautiful. I change my jumper, wash my face, comb my hair, and head down to the garden.

Everything is so vibrant outside. It's mid-spring. Sitting on the sun lounger as I wait for my breakfast, I watch the bees working tirelessly, moving from flower to flower in a hum that sounds like a tasty song. The leaves of the trees dance softly in the breeze that touches my face. I become enraptured, listening to the clatter of birds picking seeds and others singing, filling the air with musical notes. My mind is back to the present, to more recent events. My last appointment with my analyst.

In his husky, penetrating voice, he questioned me about why I did not cope well with old age if I was a healthy woman, at least without serious health problems. I confess that I spent a good few minutes thinking about what I was going to say, and finally...

"It's not that I don't get along with old age; after all, I'm not that old; it's in my head that I think I'm old, but that's because of the lack of someone to tell me how much you love me."

"In that case, that person is your husband."

"Yes, he used to tell me I love you every day when he woke up..."

"Then imagine he keeps saying..."

"But it turns out I don't hear his voice anymore."

"Then I'll tell you something, which may be cliché; someone has certainly said it, but it's always good to remember. Youth is a passing gift. We are here to learn how to live and make the most of every cycle of life. That includes joys and sorrows, and we are what we think we are. If you feel old, then you are old; the opposite is also true. It is the state of mind that determines what you are as a person."

"I understand what you mean. And I know it's true, but it's difficult sometimes to accept certain situations in our lives."

"That's where the learning of self-acceptance comes in, in valuing lived experiences and leaning on the love received and shared with those who are gone and those who are still around us."

The words echo in my head now. He is right. I am still learning to cope and to live one day at a time. If my husband could tell me anything, I think he would tell me to keep living as best I can. That our separation is temporary. Soon, we will be together again.

The breeze brings the scent of jasmine. I look at the well-tended flowerbeds with their flowers. Exuberant in their varied colours and shapes. It doesn't even compare with the flowers that the organiser of the autograph session brought last night. I felt like telling her that I don't like receiving flowers. I never have. I prefer to see them like this, in the garden, in nature, embellishing the landscape. When they cut them from their branches and stems, they are condemning them to a slow death in a vase. However, I couldn't bring myself to say it to her. She seemed so happy to give them to me, and I didn't want to ruin her moment.

They will last a few hours, if not a few days, and then wither away. They will lose their vitality, their vigour, and their beauty. I think I am in this phase of my life. I don't know for how much longer. Nor do I know if next year, when the spring season returns, I will be here still waiting...

---