Odsotnost svetlobe
Prvi del
če bi vprašali mojo mami, kako izgleda devet mesecev nenehnega jokanja, bi vam rekla, da zelo utrujajoče. ko je pregledovala fotografije lanskega leta na telefonu, je razmišljala, da »nekoč sem imela še kar simpatičen obraz in mislim, da ga ne bom imela nikoli več«.
odkar je prišla iz bolnišnice, so se vse stvari nepreklicno spremenile, kljub temu da je bila tam le nekaj dni.
takrat me je za vedno izgubila, če bi lahko temu tako rekli. mislim, da ji je bilo takrat res neopisljivo hudo. večkrat je ponavljala očetu, da najbolje, da kar umre, ker ni vedela, kam naj gre z vsem tem, kar se ji je zgodilo.
»zagotovo je bolje, da nisem več na tem svetu.«
jaz sem ji ponavljal, da sem še vedno z njo in da naj le ostane na tem svetu, ona pa je le obračala glavo stran, kot da bi jo bilo sram in kot ne bi zmogla nikogar pogledati v oči.
mami je večkrat rekla očetu, da tako zelo joče zato, ker me ni zmogla roditi v celoti, in da ji je hudo, ker ne ve, kaj naj stori s to ljubeznijo, ki je obstala nekje vmes.
toda čisto zares ni vedela, zakaj se je počutila slabo.
umrl ni nihče, ki bi ga zares poznala.
ni imela fotografij osebe, ki je umrla. ni vedela imena. samo odšlo je nekaj, kar bi lahko nekoč bilo in definitivno ne bo in bo treba zdaj s tem nekako iti naprej. ljudje so ji rekli, da bo pač že preživela.
zelo težko bi vam razložil, kako izgleda njen obraz, ko razmišlja o tem.
ginekolog ji je rekel, da ni ničesar kriva, ampak mami je rekla, da vseeno misli, da je nečesa kriva, in kdo ji lahko zagotovi, da ni ničesar kriva.
no, kdo?
nihče.
»nihče mi ne more tega zagotoviti,« je kričala in z glavo udarjala ob steno spalnice.
bilo je okoli božiča, ko se je začelo, in od takrat nisem prepričan, da je prenehala za kakšen dan. božični čas jo je potolkel, saj se ni znala več smejati, v tem času pa se ljudje ogromno smejijo. takrat je izvedela, da je njena prijateljica noseča in da z njenim otrokom ni nič narobe. mami ji je čestitala po telefonu in ji govorila, kako je vesela, da je njen otrok zdrav, ker je bila zares vesela zanjo. potem pa.
no, takrat je prvič padla sredi kopalnice in nekaj časa samo ležala.
med ležanjem sem ji šepetal:
»mami, res ni treba, da jočeš za mano.«
ampak me ni slišala in je ležala naprej, dokler ni oče prišel iz trgovine in je našel na tleh kopalnice, zvite v klobčič. dvignil jo je in jo odnesel v posteljo. v postelji se ni niti malo premaknila in najprej sem mislil, da ne diha več. oči je imela trdno zaprte.
še kar nisem slišal njenega dihanja.
»mami, zbudi se,« sem ji rekel, ker bi bilo res škoda, da bi zaspala za vedno.
»mami, zbudi se. prosim, zbudi se.«
ulegel sem se zraven nje, da bi ji povedal, kako zelo jo imam rad in da, kar se mene tiče, res ni ničesar kriva, ampak me ni slišala.
mami me pogosto ni slišala, ampak ne zato, ker me ne bi hotela slišati,
temveč zato, ker nosi slušni aparat in že nekaj časa ne sliši več šepetanja.
*
dolgo časa me ni slišala, ko sem se hotel pogovarjati z njo, in mogoče je prav tako.
če se ni znala pogovarjati z ostalimi ljudmi, zakaj bi se z mano, ki nisem imel neposredne izkušnje bivanja. mami je po prihodu iz bolnišnice pogosto želela ležati v temi. tudi čez dan si je zagrnila zavese in takrat sem se ji približal z nekaj svetlobe. če je kdaj prišla iz službe, ko je bilo še sonce na nebu, je spustila žaluzije, da bi zakrila kakršnokoli sled.
mojemu očetu je rekla: »bolijo me oči. nazaj zapri.«
moj oče ji je rekel: »greva na sprehod.«
mami mu je odgovorila: »ne, danes ne.«
in vsak dan znova je bil to njen edini odgovor: »danes še nisem pripravljena. mogoče jutri.«
mami je namesto sprehodov raje dan za dnem po prihodu iz službe prižigala sveče vseh vrst. najraje je imela majhne bele sveče v steklenih kozarcih z vzorci. zaradi teh steklenih kozarcev je mami opazovala premikajoče sence po stenah in si predstavljala, da je v nekem drugačnem svetu, kjer se ni z njenim telesom nič spremenilo. vsakič ko je znova prižigala svečo in opazovala njen plamen, je mami dobila občutek, da je še nekje nekaj upanja.
mami je dobila občutek, da obstaja nekje njeno življenje, ki je drugačno od tega.
življenje, v katerem se ji ni zgodilo to, kar se ji je zgodilo.
»naj mi nekdo razloži, kateri bog ti vzame otroka, še preden se rodi.«
po prvem mesecu iz bolnišnice je v kotu spalnice, kjer ima na nočni omarici ponavadi knjige in namizno luč, uredila prostor za oltar na nekem starem glinenem krožniku. želela me je imeti čim bliže sebi. na krožnik je polagala cvetje, ki ga je kupovala ob sobotah na tržnici pri neki stari gospe brez zob. ta stara gospa se je mami vedno sočutno nasmejala, kot da bi skrito v sebi vedela, za kaj mami uporablja njeno cvetje. mogoče je starka kdaj prej že videla take oči, ali pa jih je nekoč imela sama, ker kako bi drugače kar tako brez besed vedela, kaj se nahaja za maminimi očmi.
»veš, veliko žensk se ne pobere. živijo naprej, kolikor znajo, ampak se nikoli prav zares ne poberejo in ostanejo dolgo časa tam, v tisti zgodbi, v tistem podzemlju. včasih tudi do konca življenja. samo ostanejo in se nikoli, nikoli ne premaknejo.«
cvetje je nežno zavila v bel papir in ga dala mami v roke:
»ampak vsi pričakujejo, da bomo kar normalno živele naprej, kot da se nič ni zgodilo, a ne?«
*
mami je v stanovanju urejala kraj neskončnega in nespremenljivega prostora, medtem ko je upala, da se ji bo nekdo prikazal.
ni hotela slišati ljudi, ki so ji govorili, da je vse to zaman. ko ji je kdo pametoval, da s tem samo izgublja čas in naj že začne živeti naprej, se je mami samo obrnila, zamahnila z roko in šla v drugo smer.
včasih je komu pokazala tudi svoj srednji prst ali pa kar pomahala v pozdrav z obema srednjima prstoma v zraku. to je pogosto naredila tudi v avtu, če jo je kdo prehitel na cesti ali ji trobil.
kolikor sem jo poznal, bi zagotovo rekel, da je zelo trmasta.
ni hotela verjeti, da je za mano ostal čisti nič, popolna praznost.
na vprašanje, zakaj to počne, je odrezavo odgovorila:
»ker potrebujem nekaj!«
mami je vedela, da sem bil v njej kot v predstanju in da sem bil šele v postajanju, ampak mami je bila jezna na ljudi:
»nihče mi ne bo rekel, da je vse to enako nič.«
nihče ji ne bo rekel »ne, res ne«, nihče ji ne bo tega rekel.
»dovolj imam tega, da je vse to premalo.«
naveličana je bila iskanja dokazov, da zavzemam neki prostor, saj se tudi z najboljšimi mikroskopi ne bi zgodilo, da bi naleteli name.
za mnoge sem bil le moment nečesa realnega, toda mami tega ni razumela tako. vsakodnevno je skušala moj nič zoperstaviti nečemu. »nekaj je moralo biti. nekaj mora biti.«
o mojem obstoju se je vedno znova prepirala in zato je potrebovala ime, da sem kot nekaj izgovorjenega. ker če bi bil jaz nič, potem bi bil to tudi konec.
nepreklicen, neponovljiv konec, h kateremu se ne bo mogla nikoli več vrniti. tega jo je bilo zelo strah.
no, ker kaj bi lahko sploh storila s tem koncem?
»nič ne znam storiti s tem koncem.« hotela se je vračati nekam, kjer bi konec pomenil nekaj več kot samo konec svetlobe.
ampak mami si konca svetlobe vseeno ni želela.
(Materniska Knjižica, LUD Literatura, 2022)
The Absence of Light
if you asked my mommy what nine months of constant crying looks like, she would probably say, exhausting. while scrolling through last year's photos on her phone, she paused and thought, "I used to have such a pretty face, but I don't think I'll ever have it again."
although she only spent a couple of days at the hospital, everything changed after coming home.
that's when she lost me, forever, if you could even say that. I think it was indescribably difficult for her. she kept telling my father it was best for her to die, that she couldn’t cope with what had happened.
"it’s definitely best for me to stop living in this world."
I kept telling her I was still with her, that she should stay, but she kept turning her head away, like she was ashamed, like she couldn’t look anyone in the eye.
mommy told my dad that she cried so much because she hadn’t be able to give birth to a complete me. She said it hurt because she didn’t know what to do with all this love that now had nowhere to go.
she didn’t fully understand what made her feel this way.
she didn’t fully know the person she had lost.
there were no photos, no name. just something that could have been, now gone, and still, people kept telling her she’d eventually move on.
it’s difficult to describe what her face looks like when she thinks about it.
the gynecologist told her it wasn’t her fault, but she couldn’t stop asking herself – what if it was? who could possibly promise her it wasn’t?
well, who?
no one.
"no one can guarantee that!," she screamed, banging her head against the bedroom wall.
it all started around Christmas, and I don’t think she’s had a peaceful day since. That time of year crushed her. She didn’t know how to laugh anymore, and the season demands laughter. That was also when she found out her friend was pregnant and that nothing was wrong with her baby.
Mommy congratulated her over the phone and told her how happy she was that her baby was healthy. she was truly happy for her. and then.
well, that was the first time she collapsed in the bathroom, and just lay there for a long time.
during that time, I whispered to her:
"mommy, you really don't need to cry for me."
but she didn’t hear me and lay there until dad got back from the store and found her curled up on the bathroom floor. he picked her up and carried her to bed. she wouldn’t move at all, and for a moment I thought she’d stopped breathing. her eyes were tightly shut, her body completely still.
I kept waiting to hear her breathe.
"mommy, wake up," I begged, because it would be a terrible shame for her to fall asleep forever.
"mommy, wake up. please, wake up.”
I lay beside her and told her how much I loved her. as far as I was concerned, she wasn’t to blame, not even a little, but she couldn't hear me.
mommy often couldn’t hear me, not because she didn't want to, but because she wore a hearing aid, and hadn’t been able to hear whispers in a long time.
*
she couldn’t hear me for the longest time when I tried to talk to her, and maybe that was better. if she didn't know how to talk to others anymore, why would she talk to someone like me, someone who never even had the chance to live?
After she came back from the hospital, mommy would often want to lie down in the dark. even during the day, she would draw the curtains and shut out the light. That’s when I would try to bring her a little bit of it. if she ever came home while the sun was still out, she would pull down the blinds to cover any trace of light.
she would tell my dad, “please, close the blinds."
he would say: "let's go for a walk."
to which she would respond: "no, not today."
day after day, her only answer was: "I'm not ready. maybe tomorrow."
instead of going for a walk, mommy preferred to light candles. her favorite were the small, white ones, in patterned glass jars. They cast moving shadows on the walls, and she would sit there and watch them, imagining she was somewhere else. somewhere where her body hadn’t changed. Somewhere where everything was still ok. every time she would light a candle, the flicker of the flame gave her a fragile kind of hope.
mommy believed that her life, different from this one, existed somewhere else. a life in which none of this had happened.
"can someone please explain what kind of god takes a child from you before it is born?” she asked once.
the first month after coming home, she rearranged her nightstand in the corner of the room. she moved the books and the lamp to make space for a small altar on an old ceramic plate. she wanted to keep me as close as possible. every saturday, she would buy flowers from an old lady at the market. the woman, though toothless, always smiled at her with sympathy, as if she knew exactly what the flowers were for. perhaps she had seen such eyes before, or perhaps she once had those same eyes herself. how else would she know, without words, what was hidden behind mommy's eyes.
"You know” the woman said once, wrapping the flowers in white paper, “a lot of women never get over it. they keep going, the best they can, but they don’t really come back. they live stuck in that story, for a long time, in that underworld. sometimes for the rest of their lives.
she gently handed the flowers to mommy:
"and still, everyone expects us to carry on, like nothing ever happened, right?”
*
mommy filled her apartment with stillness. She arranged everything as if she were waiting, hoping someone might still come.
she didn't want to hear people say it was pointless. If anyone suggested she was just wasting her time and needed to move on, she would turn away without a word, wave them off, and walked in the opposite direction.
sometimes she even flipped them off. she often did this in the car, too, if someone honked or passed too close.
from what I knew of her, I would say she was very stubborn.
she refused to believe that I would leave behind pure nothing, perfect emptiness.
when asked why, she answered bluntly:
"because I need something!"
mommy knew I had barely existed in her, that I was just beginning to form, but she was furious at the people:
"no one gets to tell me this means nothing."
no one, absolutely no one gets to tell her that.
"I can’t stand the idea that what happened wasn’t enough."
she was tired of searching for proof that I was still existing somewhere, tired of imagining that maybe even the best of microscopes would someday happen upon me.
to many, I might have been just a fleeting moment, something unreal. but not to her. every day, she would try to fight back against the nothingness. “there had to be something,” she kept saying, “there has to be something.”
she argued repeatedly about my existence, and that is why she needed to give me a name, something she could say out loud. because, if I were nothing, that would have been the end.
a final, irreversible end she could never revisit. and that terrified her.
well, what is anyone supposed to do with an ending like that?
“what am I supposed to do with this kind of ending?” she asked.
she wanted to go back to a place where the end
meant something more than just the absence of light.
but more than anything, she wanted a world where there was no end at all.
(From Maternity Booklet, published by LUD Literatura, 2022)
(Translated from the Slovenian by Martha Kosir)
