The faithful shepherd

That house had always been beautiful, now a little less so.

It was raining heavily, and the wind had taken control of the trees, making them fly around wildly. I passed by there every time I came back from work, always wondering who lived there.

I had never been able to answer that question, never once had I seen anyone on that well-maintained terrace to clear my doubt.

Maybe it was because I always came home late, and even the street was lit only by the dim light of my car headlights and distant streetlights.

Even the French bulldog I saw passing by the nearby pharmacy had stopped barking when it caught sight of me with its lively eyes around one in the morning. That adorable woman, my mother, always forgot her pills, and probably the dog pitied me a little too, or maybe I had just won its favor because I always brought it a part of my dinner, as if this made me feel like I was sharing something with someone.

That’s how it had been for 5 years, until I met a girl.

That evening, we were the only ones left under the dim lights of the neon sign that marked the only supermarket nearby, lost in that dense woodland.

I was still sweating from my run around the area, and when I saw the lights on, I immediately rushed inside, hoping to find what I was looking for.

I had never been there before, didn’t even know such a place existed, probably because it was nestled among a thick network of oaks, but I didn’t hesitate to step through the door.

I remember that moment as if it were yesterday, every word, every nuance, every expression of hers.

I completely forgot the ingredients for the birthday cake I had planned to make for my mother, as I did every year.

In the dimness of that moment, everything seemed to crystallize in time. She had only asked me to pass her a jar from a shelf too high for her, and suddenly we were at the lake, laughing together at our silly lives, then I was at her house, helping her with that sticky dough that she always messed up, then I took her to the movies, and every kiss sounded delicate and intense like a Beethoven melody.

It had all happened so naturally that I had trouble grasping it.

I had even given her a ring that same afternoon when I learned about her passion for working with clay, and we had gotten messy like two children. I had discovered she lived alone with her mother, who was always away for work, just like mine, so I often went to her place after work, keeping her company, and we spent entire weeks together.

I loved watching her fiddle with her brushes, illuminated by the red light of the sunset piercing her balcony while I prepared her favorite dishes. I had lost count of the long days spent with her, doing millions of things, or sitting doing nothing, but always together.

An endless summer day, we spent it under the rain, chasing each other, catching each other, reveling in the cold that stung our skin because we didn’t care as long as we were there for each other, warming each other under the unusual clear August clouds. Nothing scared me anymore, I had even grabbed a snake by the neck and thrown it away. I never thought that by finding her, I would find myself too, because I had always thought of my life as a boring black and white photograph, but then what were all those colors she painted me with?

Her art took my breath away, and I liked imagining myself glowing like I was on her canvases, because maybe I truly had been like that since I met her, because those colors she literally painted on me, and somehow, she made even a complete disaster like me into a work of art.

“I was waiting for you,” she had told me once, and her eyes really communicated it. I felt chosen, for the first time I felt I had a place in the world, a place in someone’s heart, and I had given her mine from the very first time my eyes had fallen on hers.

And yes, I had finally discovered who lived in that house, now I knew it inside and out, maybe better than my own.

Ten years had passed since then, but I still found myself staring at that red ribbon tied to my wrist. It had been her first source of inspiration as a child, and she had given it to me. I would have liked to get rid of it, like one does with old things, but for me, everything still felt so real, I still preserved every memory intact, like the scene of a film I knew by heart. I wasn’t strong enough to let go, I had chosen to stay stuck in a past without a future. That ribbon, which when she had tied it around my wrist had seemed indestructible, had worn thin over time, and I still had to move forward.

From a distance, I saw a light on in the living room, but that light hadn’t been turned on by her, because she was no longer there.

I could still imagine us inside, having a pillow fight.

The shadows of the past tormented me through that large window I had seen from the outside, then from the inside; then suddenly I was again a stranger, but I would never truly be one.

Nothing could erase what I commemorated, the reason for my sleepless nights, the fact that I had lost my place in the world until I too would leave to be with her.

A tear traced my face as I crossed that street.

“The faithful shepherd,” on the radio, served as the background to the deafening silence that lingered inside and outside me.

Usually, I sped up when I passed in front of it, when I didn’t have the strength to do so, I slowed down, as if this could bring me closer to what I so boldly wanted back.

That house had always been beautiful, now a little less so.