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By Camelia Lissenhold Date: 2009 Oct 21 Comment on this Work [[2009.10.21.00.38.14308]] |
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The cold water hits my body - I was too hot from dancing to wait for it to warm up - And suddenly it is nine years ago, in the year 2000. I am in Havana again and the scent of twice used cooking oil permeates the air. Malanga fries softly on the stove. There is a faint rustling of plastic grocery bags being rinsed and hung to dry. I lie on the narrow bed of my little room with you, wrapped in your arms. Suddenly, piano music - unexpected - wafts through the vents of the room's thin door. So perfect that at first we thought it recorded, so brilliant that it took us whole minutes to understand that it came from the dusty grand long neglected in the decaying living room. A reluctant artist plays - we did not even know he could - and we are his hidden audience. It is extraordinary, it is beautiful, it is so much more than we expected, so much more than we could have imagined. And so we wait - silent, listening, holding our breath, hoping to make it last. A small stretch of ocean away, Florida spins in chaos, but I don't care - nothing could be farther. Surrounded by the stifling, horrid beauty of this place, bajo el azul de tu misterio Life kisses me and I kiss back. And right now, in this time, it is enough. And we hold each other - Knowing already, in places deep That it will not last. |