The Seventh Day
It was the wrong day for me. It was not my day. It was my heart… it was beating slowly.
Sitting at an open-air café and shifting my indifferent gaze, hidden behind dark sunglasses, from top to bottom, meaning from the sky to the tiled floor, I did not know yet that twenty-one years later, on a hot summer day like this one, I would say these words in this order, with this particular emphasis, and would feel cold under the shawl cast across my shoulders.
And it was not that my mind was tired and my body was spent, but the fact that I would say those words in that order, with that particular emphasis, and the random people who were around me would understand nothing, but would most certainly be awed by those words, because the last words of someone leaving this world always
