Like an awakening. Mariela closes her eyes, makes herself comfortable in her favourite armchair (the one she didn’t know was her favourite a few months ago) and lets herself go. A new game, perhaps much more than that, had started recently.

  Not caring how or why, or even that she is, Mariela becomes immersed in herself. She has that nice, warm, full feeling, like taking a good shower. Ah, those little whims that enter the mind like errant moths. “Maybe I’ll stop reading for a while and take a shower”. Choosing clean clothes, beige socks, the soft ones, the nice ones. The embroidered light brown shirt, the pleated skirt. Looking for a large bath towel, soft and clean. Off to the washroom. Opening the tap and letting the water run until it’s really hot. Then opening the cold one, gradually. Not so much resistance this time. Putting one shower curtain on the inside, the transparent one on the outside. First one foot in, then the other, wetting hands and face. Entering the stream of water, enjoying every moment. 

  Mariela washes her hair, rinses it, washes her face, and when she finishes puts on conditioner. She soaps her whole body, with willingness, with patience, with delicacy. She rinses her hair, being careful not to leave any conditioner, then her body, enjoying her own caresses. And now, yes, the nicest thing, she remains under the water without moving, Mariela sets it a little hotter, tries to be completely covered by the warm stream as a beautiful feeling comes to her from her childhood. With fear of the impending cold, she shuts off the water, extends her hand searching for the towel, opens the curtain, begins to dry herself. 

Mariela changes her position in the armchair. She feels relaxed, at ease. It has only been a short while since she began paying attention to what she likes. And she carries it through. Not all that easy but not too difficult either. Just giving more importance to her body, to herself, to what comes from inside. Reading, for instance. Being able now to spend a hefty sum on the books she likes. Going to bookstores, looking, selecting, thinking, reading while standing there, enjoying a few paragraphs. And buying them, taking them home in a plastic bag. Sometimes, unable to wait ’til getting home, stopping at a coffee-shop. Ordering a café au lait and toast, or perhaps a coffee and a gin, or maybe just a Coke, and opening the wrapping of the book with anticipation, submerging herself in its world, reading, completely given over to it. 

Mariela takes out her pen from her purse and marks the phrases she likes, corrects some typographical errors, rewrites sentences according to her own criteria. She lets herself bend the tips of the pages, bend the spine of the book so it will stay open. She looks at the time, and grimacing a bit, she puts down the book, then takes it with her and prepares to go out. 

  The telephone almost awakens her from her trance. Mariela reaches for the plug and disconnects it. She breathes deeply two or three times and goes back to concentrating on herself. She owes this change to therapy, a good passing relationship with Emilio, a change of jobs; but all that is secondary. The important issue is to allow herself to feel, not only the good things. Unfortunately, or better said, luckily, the bad ones too. The feeling of abandonment when Carlos left. A deep relationship, and an even deeper ending. Mariela feels needles inside that prick her. Fears, panics, questions. Few answers. That feeling of well being with him, of feeling badly alone; of already beginning to feel all right alone, but alone nonetheless. That blend of sensations that has a great advantage, it doesn’t matter if good or bad, but feeling alive, sensing herself feeling, having fears and pains, being very conscious of them. 

  She continues writing in her journal. That faithful journal that accompanied her through many crises. That journal that knew how to be alone for months, that never protested. Mariela writes a mixture of ideas, joys, fears, things to do, a collage. When the lead of the pencil breaks she takes it as a signal and stops writing. 

The armchair still feels very comfortable. Mariela has lost the notion of time. She doesn’t need to move. This time the feeling is sad, empty. Like that of a child not receiving any toys for Christmas. A tremendous grief comes from inside covering all her body. Tears wanting to come out, questions accepted without any answers. Letting herself feel and although the pain is great, being happy. This is part of the game, of herself, of life.  Mariela fills three glasses of water, opens the two bottles of Barbitural, covers herself with a blanket, and slowly, with no rush, takes the hundred pills. Mariela changes her position, reclines more in the armchair, looks for a fetal position, tucks herself in a bit more, closes her eyes and prepares herself to continue feeling.

This story appears in Still…life, Mosaic Press, Canada. Copyright David Mibashan.