Under the chest of drawers ...

Under the chest of drawers there is a large collection of tins of food filled with olives submerged in spicy sauces. The man owns a few olive trees and used to ride his shabby bicycle to pick them up on harvest time, his hands rough and large from work, twice as mine. That was not long ago, when he could still ride his bike. The man now lies on the living room sofa, a thin blanket covering his sick body. Each tin has a light film of dust. The air of the room is serene. The old lamp hanging from the ceiling has just broken and gives no light. The woman informs me it will be mended later today, his son will handle that. The only natural light pours into the room through a nice wooden curtain suspended at the top of the door of a tiny balcony. The little rectangular room is much too packed with old furniture. The chest of drawers has a slab of crystal on its surface. Frames of pictures are on display, depicting the couple on their prime, along with more recent snapshots of children and grandchildren. On the left there is a TV set. The man is not asleep and groans ocassionally incoherent words. The woman brings a brief update of the ongoing burden they're through. She soon talks at length about unrelated topics, loudly, trying to bring the man into the conversation. He only recognizes me after a while, when oportune clues have been duly provided. His vacant stare is distressing. The marks of age and sickness flood the room. The woman takes me by the hand to the entrance of the flat, closing the living room door behind. She breaks down and cries. I listen to her in silence and rub gently her shoulders. Two months have passed since the news were broken. She longs for the anxiety it brought to her when he was late home at night from the farmland, with no lights on his bike. She is waiting for her son to come mend the broken lamp. A young pregnant woman hurries down the stairs as I part, stopping for a second to say a few words which could make the woman a little happier.