Moments Overlooked

A month long project between two friends paying homage to the moments that make up a life.

Over. Under. Through.

by Gabriella Torres

Cesar Montenegro walked away from Augustin for the last time. The cigarette in his mouth did little to cover up the taste of displeasure the meeting had left. There was nothing to do now but walk back over the uneven cobblestone streets to Elvira and deliver the news.

“He’s not coming home.”

Her fingers, knotted like branches, momentarily stopped their knitting before taking up the repetitive motion again: over, under, through, over, under, through.

“He’s not coming home,” she repeated her eyes firmly fixed on her needles, their clicking noise rhythmic and even like the ticking of a clock.

Cesar stood under the arch of the doorway, examining his wife, her profile dark against the window, backlit from the late afternoon sun. Her hands, twisted from arthritis and nearly a lifetime without knowing rest, seemed to work separately from her body, powered by some other source of energy, a life force that was both frantic and frail.

Like trapped birds, he thought to himself as the noises from the street announced the onset of dusk. Trapped inside a house.

Cesar watched the smoke from the fresh cigarette in his mouth slowly permeate the room, rubbing itself against the furniture like a cat while the knitting needles kept insisting: over, under, through, over, under, through. 

Sunday, March 6

Graffiti Sunday

afternoon air

picks up the

smell of spring

time and promises,

what’s yet to come. 

March 3 - Frosty Cold Winter Day

I stayed in today

didn’t leave the house

spent most of my day with art

my mind, though wandered to and fro

snowshoes strapped feet - across frozen lands

the rhythmic sounds of motion through snow

sun dazzling my eyes

in my mind, perhaps a zepplin

pushing slowly through the air

the world passing as a cloud

thoughts, of places I’ve never seen

from my desk and my paints

I stayed in today. 

Thursday, March 3

If only

(*insert 

word*)

could be 

ordered in 

a cup to 

go or to

stay here 

always. 

Feb 1 aboard the SS. Hyundai

my car is much like a sailing ship

careening through streets

subjected to  the forces of nature, on the thin line between course and chaos

she bumps and slides along, pitching to and fro

beyond my control, I steer with the rudder

tires grip, slide and grip - pulling, bucking, lurching

as the wind pulls the rigging, I spin my wheel

hard to starboard - now a drift, no response

the steering wheel jumps - a blustery wind

tires spin, the old girl makes the turn

suspension strains, creaking as if wood,

quite possibly I am on a ship on the North Sea

tossed like the limey bastard I am

my small green ship passes in the dusk

Monday, February 28

Sometimes I find that words do less than they should.

I always expect more from my words, for them to work for me in my favor, to illuminate my true heart. But sometimes they’re clumsy or, worse yet, they’re nowhere to be found—the right words that is. The wrong ones are ever ready to get out, and in those moments the best recourse is silence.

I look at this picture, and there are plenty of things it makes me want to say, but to write them down or say them out loud, in the end, would take something away from the feeling the picture conveys or at least brings out in me. In this way, images will always be superior to words. What is left unsaid is often the most beautiful or powerful of things: until it is named, a feeling or impulse belongs to everyone and can be anything.

Words must be so precise to find their way to the heart or the soul, and there are many wrong turns they can take along the way…

Sunday, February 27

A long bus

ride home

made longer

in the snow

on a Sunday

afternoon that

will quickly

turn to night.