On the day when you were leaving the city, you gave me your t-shirt, still damp with your sweat, grinning; ‘This way you’ll get to keep a strong scent of mine for a long time, but I will be already be with you in a week.’ You assured.
On the day when you left, you made me lemonade and stored it in a mineral water bottle, drinking a little in a way that your lips sealed on the opening of the bottle for a good five seconds. ‘You’ll taste me when you drink it.’
On the day you left, you made me close my eyes with my right palm, swollen from twenty-nine weeks of pregnancy, spread out in yours, saying you had bought another stuff animal for our expected baby son.
It was another of those clinquant necklaces which you had gifted me during my last three pregnancies.
On the day you left, smiled colored your face just the way God paints the sky cerise, at dawn, assuring me that you’ll be back soon that I won’t even have time to notice your absence.
You lied again.
On the day you left, the fourth of your offspring and our third son entered the already blackened world of mine, forever to be unknown of your quiescent smile, the scars behind your back, of the very few places of your body where you were ticklish and the laughter which used to erupt from deep inside you, painting my world with a series of shades of rainbows.