Threads

She run in the veins of the fallen leaves losing herself between the yellow and red ones grazing the cold breeze with her fingers full of rings and bags .

She slackens but her eyes are already arrived .

In the station she can feel the smell of old memories crammed into small cases and the rustle of lifes crossing their condensed breath . Emma climbs slowly few damp steps and glances the platforms .

She sits crossing her boots and dreams.

She think of the destiny of the boy hanged in the corner with an undone beard and a lined face from the umpteenth last night of bored happiness ... of a mother near the arcade , unable to choose a gift for his never born child ... of an old man crushed on a bench in front of her counting the ladders of his suit .

“ Are you never afraid of not really being there ? “ a man stares her and sketchs on the glass words that melt fast away ; Emma look at him and answers with a ghost of a smile .

“ It’s possible to look through you , there are other windows inside you “ and more words slide away and wet her face . Emma blows silent words in the air and lowers her eyes .

She would follow and tell him a chapter of her life for every station , she would show him all the faces she has known between the first platform and the exit and to list him every speech and every silence she has listened .

She looks away but the window is already faraway .

Emma checks her hat , seizes the bags and starts to walk again along the platform .

Peoples that walk through Emma leave in her some of their essence : a melancholy , a memory , a thread of smiles . Emma picks up and put down them in the bags , still dubious if leaving or staying, as ever .

 

" Threads " by Mathilde

Done