Page 36 - October 2020

Leyre Villate is a
writer, translator and Yet another leaf
educator. Her writings
have been published
in the literary Bengali Leyre Villate Garcia
magazine Parampara,
as well as in European
(www.thedreamingma
chine.com) and
American (Dukool and
Mud Proposal)
magazines

These days the sun forces itself into my room in the late mornings. The thick
curtains do nothing to shield against it. I never want to wake up, but I always do.
That light, and the sound of an inexhaustible lawnmower that some maniac uses
from 8 am until lunchtime, are too unbearable to keep sleeping. I imagine the man
— it has to be a man — any obsessive woman would clean over and over the
same floors, dishes, furniture — not a lawn — and I actually feel pity for him. How
must it feel to need to mow the lawn every morning in order to maintain one's own

sanity. I forgive him. Everyday it takes me around half an hour to forgive him.

Once the man is forgiven and I am awake, it's time for coffee. I get the roasted
ground coffee — fair trade — and the italian coffee maker from the cupboard.
Water, coffee, medium heat: I have perfected the process so that exactly at the time
I finish washing and changing clothes the coffee is ready. With the first sip my day
starts.

I don't know which day of the week it is. Through the kitchen window I see the
same mountains, and they also don't know what day of the week it is. The mower is
still audible in this part of the apartment, but softer, so much softer I have to listen
to hear it. The clouds are slowly covering the highest peak. Today it will be a foggy
day.

The doorbell rings. I glance at the wall clock. It must be the maid. She’s ever so
punctual. I open the door, we exchange pleasantries. It is indeed cool, she says. It
may rain later. She gets to her work. Back in the kitchen, I finish my coffee. The

empty mug looks at me and I yawn. I pour myself another cup not thinking of
anything.

There is no point in thinking. All thinking brings is clutter. My mind is full, of
memories, of memories of places, of events, of thoughts. A mind needs
maintenance too, just like a home. While the maid arranges and cleans room by