It was already dark. The moon shone like a large silver lantern. A dark-haired boy, apparently in his twenties, stood in the dim room, gazing at his mother, who was embroidering a pattern on a napkin. However, he didn't emerge from the shadows that surrounded him. He only watched quietly, unwilling to interrupt her work. Quite a few years had passed since he had existed.
She was old. Old, but to him, she was always just as beautiful, and at heart, as if still young. Her eyes might have been a little duller and grayer, but there was still something in them he couldn't define, something he couldn't see in anyone else, something beautiful, full of care and love. Perhaps it was her goodness that was reflected in those simple, withered eyes as if in a mirror. He didn't know. Besides, her gaze wasn't as sharp anymore, but it was still wise and patient. Her
hair was silver, faded, shimmering softly in the candlelight, dimmed by the dark, mournful fabric that lined the room. They had already lost their raven hue. The boy no longer remembered how black those "swallows in her hair" had been.
A melancholy gripped him. Deep and lyrical, yet oh so sweet. He longed to come closer, but only drew back. He didn't want to intrude. Still gazing at his mother as if at a holy deity, he admired her every movement, as graceful, subtle, and humble as she had been when she was young.
The woman stood and looked in his direction for a moment. But she saw nothing but a few white candles and a deep shadow that filled almost the entire room. Then the boy saw that she was crying again, still as wistfully and longingly as she had been for many years. He knew it was for him.
Her once beautiful, alabaster face, now slightly darker and more wrinkled by loving care and the mercilessness of time. Each wrinkle was her nightly vigil, her motherly gaze, the solace of bad times, the bandaging of wounds, the joy in sorrow. His childhood came flooding back to the boy. His mother's comforting hand on his dark hair when he'd come home with tears in his eyes, and her kind advice. A hand as gentle, kind, and angelic as it was now, only less dry and wrinkled.
He tried to recall her voice as well, as she sang him to sleep. And her voice was soft, silky, and exceedingly patient. Wise words, full of love and respect. Looking at her with nostalgia, he realized that life and youth were such a fragile and fleeting moment.
The candle flame danced mischievously, as if demanding attention. In the next room, the joyful cries of children had faded. He stood beside her now, but she didn't notice him. She felt only a chill. He took her hand and they left through the closed door, accidentally extinguishing the flame of a candle along the way
Brak komentarzy:
Prześlij komentarz