Bald-headed
Ch. 1

The body of an old woman lay coldly alone on her warm bed. Traces of tears dried up between the lines of wrinkles that radiated on the side of his tightly closed eyes.

I'm rising. Sitting slowly, found my old toes frozen, cold.

Young Birundasih, beautiful Birundasih, her body shrouded in a thin golden light. He came down from the bed onto the ceramic floor, white and speckled in gray. Standing there staring at the pale and stiff body, the old Birundasih, lay quietly.

Lived on? It's not easy to explain.

Ten minutes ago my daughter took off gently but forced the warm grip of my old hand. The girl had to catch up on time so as not to be late for work, she had been sitting for over an hour in a white chair, holding tightly and gently rubbing the back of my hand during our conversation, he told me about his shitty weekend.

The girl said our neighbor's cat threw dirt back in the yard and broke another pot as she jumped over the walls of their house. He cursed while laughing until his face met with red.

The girl also gave me some good news, a long-missed relative will come to visit and will stay for a few days here. My fingers moved within the girl's grasp. A line of smiles etched into my face, that's what I forced, but it didn't seem to work, the girl kept telling me about other little things.

I haven't spoken in a week, my lips are hard to move and my tongue is twisted. My body is not full of energy. But I am grateful for the eyes and ears that still function quite well. And the girl understood very well that I loved to listen and tell stories. That's our habit.

I reluctantly took off my hand as the girl started to say goodbye as usual. He works in a simple flower shop. As an officer he was scheduled. Normally, I never minded being left alone.

A few hours before my usual lunch I spent staring at the ceiling of the room and listening to the sounds from outside the window. It was enough to keep me calm waiting for the girl to come back and feed me lunch. But this morning, I was not willing.

Like the....

My childhood.

I'm a ten-year-old girl, having a father and mother, sisters, that they love each other. Play jump rope or exchange clothes and sometimes fight to fight for a seat at the dining table.

All the memories were walking around beautifully like little ponies dancing in my mind.

Mother, with her hair curled high, bright knee-length patterned clothes that she wore like a daily uniform, moved nimbly in their kitchenette. Prepare breakfast for everyone.

Dad, wait quietly in the chair at the end of the dining table. Sipping the tea slowly from his cup. The children came and sat down one by one. Calmly and with a little commotion. The man who always smiled, one, two, three and four, five, six kisses to his cheeks before breakfast started.

Love rituals in the family. Rituals that in time are forced to stop, grow and change. Laughter that turns with tears, hugs and longings.

I saved a long time to be able to retell another day, to the girl or to anyone who would like to listen. One of the reasons why there is a longing to meet.