Half Stone

I remember feeling cold on a warm spring day. The hesitance I felt to look at your glass; innocent, pure eyes beyond the window, while I tasted the saltiness of my tears. Windows had never felt more evil to me- I hated them and I still do. You’re tough… you’ve always been tough.... but that day broke you; like it broke me. I turned my head back for a split second and stared at your slow movements, carefully recording every bit of you in the golden pocket of my memory; every hand gesture, every little wrinkle in your face, every frequency of your voice getting lower and lower each year, every word coming out of your mouth tasting sweeter than any cup of chocolate ice cream you ever bought me, every time you would call me mbretëreshë and princeshë, every time your bushy grey eyebrows furrowed and drew together to form a V shape, every time you’d kiss my forehead, every time you would put your soft and tired hand against my skin to check my temperature, and every time you taught me something new.  

You turned away to hide your vulnerable mind and body. I looked forward. I wouldn’t dare to look back. 

Our hearts went through a sunset; it’s one of those sunsets you never forget.

I didn’t say goodbye; I couldn’t say goodbye… because- goodbyes don’t exist. Do they? 

 The reddish blanket felt soft and itchy against my skin, but your arms felt too loving for me to care to scratch myself. I had found a small old book, with a white or gray cover, stored in a corner of my house; I asked you to read it. You had seen that book before- you knew it well. You frowned for a moment but refused to break my heart, so you picked up the little old book and carefully pronounced the strange letters before me. I watched your mouth slowly form each word as you smiled at my puzzled face- the strangest story I had ever heard.  I barely remember the words through those pages, neither do I remember the story but I vividly remember the message behind it and the sparkle in your eyes as you flipped through the pages. From what I can recall it was a story about a grandpa and a beet. Yes, a large red beet stuck in the ground. I think now you can imagine why I was so confused. A large beet and a grandpa. Great story for an 8-year-old. So I told him “Gjyshi, this is a weird story; I don’t like it,” and he told me to wait… so I waited. He keeps the book on his shelf to this day. 

Your precision in cutting those little pieces of wood always amazed me. Your little warehouse at the corner of the street reeked a woody fragrance that crashed into my nostrils like the waves in Bunec. I loved watching you work. I loved seeing you focus on it so much: measuring the corners of a bunch of pieces of wood while trying to put everything together with a rhythm. I would wander around the stinky- but good stinky- smelly warehouse, and feel the softness of the chalk you marked everything with. You would run from one corner of the room to the other while I would play your old music in the background. While your hands glued, cut, and pieced together you would sing to me; I would sing with you. Waves of smooth jazz notes and smiles made of love. Every single time I would go to that little stinky warehouse I would learn something new. I asked a million questions; you had a million answers. It’s because of you that I know how to make a wooden spoon; it’s because of you that I know what a wrench is. He sold everything two weeks ago. I learned about it yesterday; he never told me. Memories do hurt, don’t they.

I dream of you teaching me again; I dream of you slowly answering my demanding and abstract questions; I dream of having long debates with you that neither of us will win; I dream of you. I can barely wait to speak with you early in the morning, but, at the same time, the heaviness that I feel in my chest every second I hear you say “Na ka marrë malli Fjona” weighs more than the thousands of miles that separate us. I know that the minute that camera turns off, you don’t fight the tears anymore. You release your sorrows, but never in front of me. You’re still tough. Remember the story? Part of you always knew it was coming. You knew that one day I would have to fly; you taught me how to fly on my own. I know why you sold the warehouse and everything in it; you can’t bear the thought of us not being together. Me neither. You taught me to be strong and that’s exactly what I am doing. We hurt, but nothing ever stays the same. I love you, even though I don’t say it often- not because I don’t love you, but because I don’t want you to remember. I don’t want you to remember my face that day. I don’t want you to remember the tears I tried so desperately to hide from you. I don’t want you to remember how much I tried to hide my shiny, wet face and salty tears through the glass of the window. 

You shaped my heart through years and years of memories but I had to break it in two. I left half of my heart with you; you trusted me with half of yours. We were forced to replace them with stones. You taught my half-heart how to breathe on its own. I love you gjyshi. I know your heart is probably still bruised and purple; my only wish is to heal it. 

I am sorry.

I had to breathe on my own. 

I had to fly.