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.
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…