detail from: goodfom,com

Inhale and Exhale

The window was only slightly opened, but part of the white muslin curtain slipped through that opening and swayed in the wind. Occasionally, like a small helium balloon, it fills with air, then retreats again and sticks to the window. Like a man who inhales strongly, quickly, impatiently, so that he does not miss anything in that inhalation, to fill his lungs because he does not know when the inhalation will be possible again. Like a man who exhales suddenly, without his will, and is left stunned by the lack of air, dismayed, lungs glued to the bed.

The scene repeats constantly. Inhale and exhale the now semi-wet edge of the curtain on the half-open window of the room on the ground floor.

Rare walkers, mostly with their puppies, stop and obscure the view of the breathing room in which his mother lies. A man in his late fifties then leans a little to the side, or steps out of the place where he got stuck himself a few hours ago to have a better view. He is bothered by reckless people and their four-legged pets. They act as if it is their park that they can walk through when they want, their lawn where they stop when they are pressed by need. Once, a woman with an aged slow Labrador stopped staring at a closed window with the curtains open. She approached him completely, almost touching the window with her nose, she blocked the light with her fists and stared curiously while the yellow dog with the torn hair lay in the grass next to her legs.

He was furious, offended, he got up from his seat and walked towards her, giving her signs with his hands, but she did not see him. He could not come closer, he was not allowed to speak loudly – he was afraid that his mother would hear him. He should not have allowed that. The dog raised his head just enough to let him know he had spotted him, but he did not move. That impossible, uneducated woman did not move away from the window, and the man had the desire to grab her by the shoulders and drag her away. But he did not dare. He did not dare.

When she finally continued her way, dragging a sluggish dog on a belt that was too long, he felt exhausted. The veins in his temples trembled and then struck with such force that he could see them under his eyelids every time he closed his eyes. He returned to his place, to the uncomfortable green bench, from which he had a good view of the window of his mother’s room and continued to wait.

While the wind plays with the curtain on the eighth day after the home for the elderly is in quarantine, on the eighth day after not seeing his mother, he is still waiting for the window to open, to see her as he slowly approaches sitting in a wheelchair pushed in front of him by a nurse. For the woman to open the curtains, to open the window and to point to the small arranged pots, in which red and pink violets were blooming. For the mother to reach out and touch them, with the smile, to look over the flowers and to wave to her son who is waiting on the bench, clutching a bowl of fresh homemade cheese rolls between his hands. Her favorite.

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