Moje nebogljeno dete – My helpless child

foto: Rene Gomolj

foto: Rene Gomolj

Nisem povsem prepričana, ampak morda se je že jutro pričelo povsem nesprejemljivo. Prezgodaj, ponudilo le skodelico zeliščnega čaja in hitenje v mesto, kamor smo prispeli pred dnevi s trajektom. Utrudila me je tržnica, ugotovitev, da knjigarne, kjer bi potolažila nakup njihovega prevoda biografije nekega umetnika, brijoš s čokolado in Levova nepopita Cedevita.
Po vrnitvi sem napovedovala dvig temperature morskega zraka nad 30 stopinj Celzija bolj zavoljo njenega joka in zavoljo tega, ker bi dišalo po neznosni vročini. Jedla je. Jokala. Dvigovala sem jo iz postelje. Pestovala njeno razdražljivost. Jo posadila v voziček in hodila po dovolj veliki terasa. Zaspala je za dobrih pet minut, previla sem njeno mehko rito že tretjič, pred tem pa pustila, da hladen tuš nežno teče po njenem vročičnem obraz. Položila sem jo v najhladnejši prostor hiše. Upala, da bo zaspala. Ampak, dan se je le vrtinčil naprej, pomešan z jokom, tolažbo, ihtenjem in iskanjem lastnega zavetja. Moledovala sem, naj se že enkrat konča, ker je včasih drugi dan lažje. Utrujeno sem iskala pomoč, ki bi lahko bila skrita v naravni lekarni, dvigovala sem lastno razpoloženje tako, da sem ji dajala vedeti, da mi ni povsem vseeno. A preden sem jo oblekla v njeno pižamico, ko se je dan že skoraj prevesil v zgodnji večer, sem na postelji zagledala suhceno in zvijajoče se telo. Takšnega vidiš morda le še na kakšnih starih fotografijah ali novejših, ki prihajajo iz pozabljenih krajev. Na beli brisači, ki ji ni dajala utehe je brcala s sebe tanko bombažno pleničko. Gledala sem njen besneli obraz in v njem videla to nebogljeno bitje, ki ga vidijo drugi. Začutila sem delček njihovega odpora do tega z življenjem nezdružljivega telesa. Do oči, ki buljijo v neznano. Ki te sploh ne pogledajo a ti vidiš, da je desno tako zelo drugačno, da te včasih mrena, ki diha skozenj zaskeli. Za hip sem želela, da oddide. Utrujenost me je tiščala na tisti rob, ko bi ponovno rekla pojdi in se ne vračaj več. Nemoč, ki se mi je zažrla v drobovje, ko ji nisem znala pomagati, mi je pretila, da jo bodo moje roke izpustile. Sesedla sem se v koti preozke kopalnice. Sililo me je na jok, a še jokati nisem mogla. Zmogla nisem iztočiti niti ene same solze iz svojih prezira polnih oči, do videnja, ki je še vedno utripalo v meni. V ogledalu sem pogledala svoj obraz. Kako dvolična si, sem si zasikala. Na njem sem iskala to ljubezen, ki sicer pronica skozi moje prsi a mati v meni mi ni zmogla odpustiti tega pogleda, ki sem ji ga namenila malo pred tem. Imelo me je, da bi v ploskev pred seboj zalučala prvo stvar, ki bi mi prišla v roke, ker jo varujem le pred drugimi pogledi, tokrat pa pred lastnim nisem postavila prav nobenega sita. Koliko kvadratnih centimetrov kože je posejane z omenjeno brezbrižnostjo, ki jo upam celo napisati in vem, da ob morebitnih kritikah ali klevetih izza vogala ne bom niti trznila. Lasje so mi padali na obraz in imela sem občutek, da se mi še konice las, uničene od morja in sonca smejejo v brk in se muzajo mojemu globokemu padcu.
Želim kriviti napačno začeti dan, ker je vedno lažje, če je kriv nekdo drug, pa mi je bila tisto večer v pomoč le noč, ki je čakala name z mehko blazino. Streznila sem se kmalu. Odšla nazaj in jo trdno objela, da mi je nihče ne bi ponovno odvzel proč. Obraz sem potisnila v njen mehki vrat, zaprla oči in pomislila, da pravzaprav ona ljubi mene. Nemočno žensko, strto mamo, klecajoče bitje, ki jo je tisti hip držalo v naročju. Brezpogojno ljubi vse pomanjkljivosti, ki jih skrivam pred njo, moj škrlatni plašč in plašnice, ki jih redno negujem, da bi mi bile v uteho. Moj razum, ki prepriča podzavest in  nasmeh takrat, ko sem pravzaprav žalostna.

In ker je ljubezen slepa, ostajam v temi še naprej. Slepec sem, ki ljubi. In nikoli več ne želim spregledati!

midvemala

foto: Rene Gomolj

I am not entirely sure, but perhaps even the morning started completely unacceptable. Too early, it offered just a cup of herbal tea and rushing to the city where we arrived with a ferry just a few days earlier. Tired by the visit of the market, also knowing there’s no bookstore that could provide some comfort by holding a translation of a biography of some artis, brioche with chocolate and Lev’s unfinished Cedevita made me tired.
After returning I predicted rise in temperatures above 30° probably because of her crying and because it smelled of unbearable heat. She ate. She cried. I was lifting her out of the bed. I cradled her irritation. I put her in her cart and walked along the spacious terrace. She fell asleep for five minutes, I changed her soft bottom for the third time that day, but before that I let the cold shower run down her heated face. I laid her in the coolest part of the house hoping she would fall asleep. But that day, mixed with crying, comforting, sobbing and seeking its own shelter, just whirled on. I was begging it to end because it is always easier the next day. Tired as I was, I looked for help in natural pharmacy and tried to lift my spirits by letting her know I do care. But just before the day changed to night and I changed her into her little pyjamas I saw a small, skinny and twirling body on the bed. The body you can only see in very old photos or perhaps in some new ones that were taken in some forgotten places. On a white towel, that did not give her great comfort, she kicked off a sheer blanket. I looked at her enraged face and saw this helpless little being, a being other people see in her. I felt a fraction of people’s reluctance towards this “with life incompatible” body of hers. Towards these eyes that are just staring into the distance. These eyes that do not even look at you, but you can see that the right eye in very different and sometimes the membrane on it causes the stinging feeling in your heart. Just for a moment I wanted her to be gone. The severe tiredness pushed me to that edge where I would say go and do not come back. Helplessness in my gut when I wasn`t able to help her threatened my arms to let her go. I crashed onto the small bathroom floor. The tears were boiling in me but I couldn`t cry. I was not capable of shedding even one tear from my eyes that full of contempt towards what I felt a few moments back. I saw my face in the mirror. How two-faced you are, I hissed at myself. I was searching for love, love that normally leaks through my bosom, but the mother in me could not forgive me for the gaze I had given her a while back. I suddenly felt this urge to throw the first thing that my hands could touch towards the flat surface. I usually guard her against such gazes, but this time I could not do it even before my own. How many centimeters of skin is scattered with the mentioned indifference, the one I dare to write about, knowing that I won`t even twitch if I hear any critics or slanders regarding it. My hair was falling on my face and I had a feeling that even its ends, split from the sun and the sea water, were mocking my downfall.
I want to blame the day that had started the wrong way, because it is always easier if someone else is to blame, but that day the only help I was given, was the night that waited for me with a soft pillow. I soon felt sober. I went back and hugged her so much that no one could take her away from me. I put my face into her soft neck, closed my eyes and thought that she is the one that actually loves me. She loves this helpless woman, broken mum, shattered being who was holding her that moment. She loves all the mistakes that I try to hide before her, she loves my red coat and blinders I take good care of just so they could comfort me. And she loves all this things unconditionally. My mind that convinces my subconscious to smile when I feel sad.

And because love is blind I am staying in the dark. I am a blind man who loves. And I never want to see again.

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3 comments on “Moje nebogljeno dete – My helpless child
  1. Jadranka pravi:

    Draga moja, to pa si potegnila iz globocine srca.
    Ponosna sem na Tebe da tako iskreno znas opisat bolecino, ki jo povecini vsi skrivamo. ❤

  2. Sabina pravi:

    Kot zmaga brezpogojne ljubezni. Vedno znova in znova…
    Ko dan ni nič kriv in Sofi tudi ne. Ko se sesujemo pod težo bremena… in naslednji hip že obžalujemo…se poberemo in gremo dalje. Iz ljubezni za ljubezen…
    Vse dobro.

  3. Teja pravi:

    Ta zapis je nekaj najlepšega kar sem in bom kdaj prebrala… Ki ga razumemo vse mame – bodisi zaradi “navadne” utrujenosti ali posebnosti naših otrok. Petra, neizmerno občudujem Vas in Vaše.

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