Stone after stone

Some weeks ago I went to Barcelona for a weekend. Home. Being a short flight from Paris I do it every two months or so. Going back is always a similar bitter sweet moment. No matter how often I go, no matter for how long. You belong to there but in a way you don't belong to anywhere. Your closest friends are always welcoming, the ones that really know you, that forgive you for not writing to them, for not spending time with their kids or simply having coffee and chatting about life, love and sex (yes, this is what girls talk about when together in a group and 80% of them have had the same partner for more than 5 years). Their generosity amazes me every time. Their repertoire of sexual tips too.

Being back one irremediably wonders about the conterfactuals of life: how would have life been hadn't the 'luggage girl lifestyle' started? how would have been marrying that first boyfriend that trashed your heart? how would have been spending more time closer to your parents? for how many Sunday lunches, birthdays, happy and not so happy moments was I absent? how many family pictures did I miss?

With amazement, visit after visit, I observe how Gaudi's Sagrada Familia Cathedral emerges standing from our sunny terrace, slowly changing, year after year, tower after tower. Wrinkle after wrinkle my mum's face changes too, my dad's size seems to shrink and my hair appears to fall more than ever before. And with few stones of melancholy and many stones of happiness I build life.

*More on new old Moroccan stones tomorrow.

Comments

Cake said…
beautiful, that's how i feel every single time i go home..these are my stones too...
10:34 AM
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