I remember when I went to see that old drama film „Goodbye Again” starring my favorite actress Ingrid Bergman. That May-December romance. Usually I arrived late at the cinema, usually I entered there when the lights were switched off, bumping into other men or women standing up on those stairs, together with one of my classmates. It was always his fault, I never learned how to be late at a meeting. I was the one who felt pity for that woman on the screen, victim of others’ misconceptions, of her own disillusions and dreams.
I passed that threshold. Now I am middle-aged, alone now and then. If I were that woman in the story I wouldn’t have fallen in love with a young man, I wouldn’t have accepted to have a love affair with him, because I was lonely too long. Because I think that such things are not good. Even if I were beautiful. My heart was always a mother’s heart, never a lover’s sweet tender hideout. I don’t have a child, but I always remember the awesome pink and white magnolia blossoms on a narrow street in my neighborhood and my amazement in front of them, wide open flowers before their leaves take charge of the tree.
Like them, I never learned to be late.