Le Silence
The rain pelted down on the windows and the closed doors of my coppery old house and suddenly, after a long time, I feel more alive and active than ever. What is it about the heavens bearing down in anger (or is actually lust?) upon our mortal souls that seem to make delighted children of so many of us?
I'm now sitting down in my old chair in front of my old desk and I feel the room’s resentment at not having been used in such a long time. I, that would sit in front of my desk for hours every day, writing because the words needed an out or twiddling with my old typewriter, the only memento I can keep of a father that wanted a son. And, I’m sorry. I truly am sorry that I couldn't go inside that room in so long but.. when you’re old and decrepit and waiting for the man with the long cloak, you do all you can to avoid painful memories..
And those memories.. I can still smell the slight burn of the roasted meat as it slid down my throat. I can still taste that forbidden elixir, that drink of the gods that I used to love so much, that champagne that would go down so easily.. But most of all, I remember the lights, the sway of the nubile, young bodies as they danced to the latest music and the ecstatic smiles of the people invited.. Oh, yes, I knew how to throw a party- and the best part? I was young and beautiful. Jeune et Jolie and my world knew no bounds.. an upcoming writer, a talented host with a gift for throwing parties that no one would forget in a hurry and la pièce de résistance? I was La Femme. That one woman that everyone wanted to take home; that everyone wanted on his arms to show off to friends; the woman so uninhibited, that pain and fear knew no names with her…
And I would sit with my cigarette holder and my bejeweled, make-up bag and my admirers around me, each offering everything from a wonderful night-out to love and babies, or from the really bold, a night of long, powerful passion. And I said no and yes, like a Goddess.. Because, really, I was Aphrodite herself.. Who would dare displease the most beautiful woman in all of Paris? I was the goddess of love and beauty and of the arts and of writing.. Oh, I remember the stories I would write. Petite, lovely ones about dancing girls and strong-jawed Marquises, and money and diamonds and travel.. But how much of my own celebrated writing did I ever understand? How much of my pen wrote to me?
It feels strange to grow old.. because, really, no matter how much you tell yourself it’s coming somehow you expect to be pardoned…to be excused from the exercise. And, you know, most of the time one doesn't really notice that one is growing old, just that one is tired more often or that one has flabbier skin but then one day, you look into the looking-glass and you don’t know anything anymore…and then the real fun starts- the self-doubt, the oppressive loneliness. The cold bitter winter of one’s life has begun and one has just realized that one’s forgotten the wintercoat and gloves…
I shouldn't have come back.. age and wisdom of youth speak from these rooms and I have gone too long to react well to both. I am a tired, old woman with too many memories and I am awaiting…