Myriam sits in a window seat; she watches the landscaped garden outside.
Its sereneness soothes her; she has always loved Italian gardens, and today she has a need to be near tranquil things, she is feeling vulnerable, but not without reason.
Here in the tearoom, she can ponder on those things, those days after home.
She is longing for the touch of her mother, a smile, or a nod. She knows she will not have that today, or any day soon, if ever. Folding her scarf into a square, she places it beside her bag on the sofa, she un-buttons her jacket.
She presses her shoulders into the couch and makes herself relax. Her mind wanders to the weeks gone by, the leaving, the journey, her new job, the new apartment and its limitless choices, her goodbyes, but not to her father.
A server arrives with her tea in a white pot; he places it beside the tiny jug. She relishes the acceptance of a pot just for herself. The warm sun is touching her hair; she lays her head back and waits for release, waits to be free.
Soon, Myriam will be fluent in her new language. She does not share the seeds of her own, the origins of her daily labels, but she knows everything needs a name.
Deja un comentario