Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski
Scream. The mind brings the memory of a vision of that famous painting by Munk. That contorted with terror face. But it is not my scream. There is no terror in my memory. Maybe when you were still sick, weakening every week? But not really. I was too busy with soaking in every second of your presence, of the smell of your skin, the sound of your voice.
Silent scream in that isolated room in the hospital, with all these probes and machines attached to your body? No. There was no time to scream. It was a time of savoring every second, every precious moment of being with you. Was there a dim hope? I suppose there was a faint longing for it. But not for a scream. The entire very dedicated team of doctors and nurses knew early on – but they did not give up. As long if that faint hope remained.
Till I will say it, when I will arrive at that moment on my own time. When I had that long talk with the two specialists (a neurologist and a doctor, whose only role seemed to be to give me support, a psychologist perhaps?) I did not feel like screaming. I knew. God knows how I didn’t want to be the truth – but it was, and I knew.
I would not scream because every second to the very last one I needed to be with you. Not with fear, not with loss. With you wholly. My last talk with you, a long one, was about our love. The beauty of her. Telling the long story of it, from the very first day. Long story. Reminding you and myself of it. And how immensely grateful and happy I was. At that time, too. Even after I did say the word, after they removed the tubes and disconnected the machine – your body still had a heartbeat for short while. Tere was no time to scream, when they asked if I want to spend some moments with you until the hearts stopped its labor. Of course, I went and caressed your face, held your hand. It wasn’t time to scream. There was time to console you, to be grateful you are no longer in those terrible throws of that terrible disease.
Later we spent so much time on my traveling with memory of you to our places, our journeys. There was no time to scream.
But, as time passed, moments of silent screams came. I didn’t want them; I ran from them.
Now? Yes, I do. I have to slowly dismantle piece by piece our last apartment. Must squeeze everything that is ours in a few suitcases, traveling bags. Most of the material items we bought and gathered over the decades – has to be given away or disposed of. I must transfer myself, my body, to different spaces, lands, countries. And I do feel like screaming at times. But I also had to stretch myself, and pack myself inside for the things not material: every day, every year, every hour of our love and life. I didn’t know I could hold so much, that I had so much space inside me. But I do. Not a single minute will be left and forgotten.
Scream
When I scream your name in pain
will you come to me?
When I cry in vain for our days and nights
will you come with touch?
When I forget my keys, my wallet and life
will you find them for me?
If I hear your scream from the abyss,
I will run and find you.
If I hear your crying over song or poem,
I will find the music and words.
When I will know you are lonely and sad
I will reach and touch you.
I screamed your name and enormous
shadow of an Angel appeared in front.
He brought our lost Love.
And silenced the scream.
/B. P-G 07.2024/
> > Pogwarki < < 