It
is probably winter, from the window—a narrow window, quite low-positioned, not
distant from the floor—enters a strong white light, a winter light I suppose,
outside the monastery where this scene happened has the appearance of being
cold but the sky is clear and sunny.
The room is completely dark, enlightened by the beam of light coming from the
narrow window. A Caravaggesque atmosphere throbbing in that chiaroscuro scene.
At
the center of the room there is a big and high bed.
On the right side two women are standing by and talking, one is my mother she’s
almost hidden in the dark, the other woman tall and slim in a white night-gown
with long and flowing grey hair her mother (my grandmother Laura) they talk.
I am close to the window and watch outside, I am scared, I do not listen to
their chats, I want to leave that place and get out into the light to the
freedom, I am choking there.
I am choking for a fault I don’t know yet, I feel guilty for a guilt yet to
come, a guilt I will nurture within me like a hard clot in my blood all my life
when I think of Laura - my grandmother.
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