Little red berries

December ritual

My mother phones me and carefully tells me: ‘Don’t do any laundry tomorrow; it is the day your grandfather died’. 
She remembers all these things, important dates and certain facts. Unlike me, she knows something about sacrifice.
So I plan not to do any laundry, not to violate her beliefs as there is something immensely beautiful in the way she 

makes the request, in the way she remembers dates and performs old rituals. Although quite disobeying by nature, 
I agree to her call of duty.

I don’t want to know the date, I actually don’t know it, I refuse to memorize it, although my memory reminds me that
 it was winter when it happened, it was December and I was away, in another country, surrounded by others, shielded 
from grief and rituals. I was told after the funeral, days later, when my parents considered it was the time. 
That’s why I don’t know the date and I refuse to ask or to remember. 
It is like it didn't even happen.

Two and two and two more

2 (III)

2 (II)

2 (I)

Autumn encounter

You hid your face and kept silence

[I had in mind a very beautiful poem for this post, Nathan Alterman's The Cry, which I couldn't find anywhere on the internet in its English version. 

The Romanian translation is too cheesy, even for this blog. Until I return to the UK, and look for it at the Senate House, this post will do without it. 

You might, anyhow, consider reading Amos Oz's novel, Black Box, the inspiration for this post. ;-)]

[Now, on a second thought, this post is better without any words, any poem, any artifice. R. said that there is nothing erotic about this post and
that the images present a game between girls. The atmosphere is intimate but not erotic.
 I might add that I didn't want them erotic in any way. I wanted them simple, sad, and silent. ;-)]