Piotr Siwecki – WE’LL WEEP FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE





– For God’s sake… let’s finish… enough for now?… – thought the man with short hair and glasses.

– We need many more flowers to be walking beautifully… – thought the woman in a black biker

jacket, skinny black jeans and black suede boots. This is not her favourite outfit… today, though,

this is the only thing she could wear… leather jacket, black underwear, black jeans, black boots…

only in this outfit – this is what she felt, feels and will feel… only in this outfit does she feel today

enough appropriate distance to that which has happened…. in thought, speech, deed and

dereliction…

Leaning across the passenger seat, she opened the door of her black Toyota for the man.

At first he sat with his back to her.

He likes aniseed sweets…

He likes re-heated cheese dumplings…

He likes meatballs in mustard sauce…

He likes to cook and eat alone…

He likes to fall asleep in his armchair, book in lap, any lazy Sunday afternoon…

He likes this immanent, difficult freedom, which he can’t seem to express in some anecdotal form,

because… in fact, he does try to avoid that which is around him… his mother always lectured him

about minding his own business, never others’, and that he mustn’t gossip…

He doesn’t like…

He likes his woollen sweater with its hip-height pockets, the one with the big, wooden buttons, the

one mother knitted for father one summer, ages, ages ago, on some holiday, holed up in a cottage

in the woods and…

He knocked his shoes together a few times, slid his feet, shod in soft, suede brown shoes, inside the

car, then turned to face the dashboard.

He fastened his seatbelt.

He angled his knees to the right, towards the door, so as not to get in the way of the gear stick.

She looked at him in a way he would not notice.

She likes stealing such glances.

She knows he still hasn’t realised she often looks at him this way…

He…

Sometimes, he wants to tell her that the flat they share wasn’t inherited from his grandmother, rather his

grandmother’s fiancé, the director of some gas processing plant, way back in the days of darkest

communism… he sometimes wants to tell her that his grandmother’s lover had perished in the Miednoje

massacre… maybe one day I’ll tell you that my grandfather’s sister was one of the children they

experimented on in Auschwitz… maybe one day I’ll feel like telling you that my father’s mother was

a nurse in the Warsaw Uprising… maybe… maybe one day I will want to tell you about the uncle

who painted Orthodox icons, in the old way, on wooden slates… one day, I will tell you all this,

because one should not keep this much shut up inside…



read the complete text in PDF



by Piotr Siwecki