The tuna loaf

It was the only time we ate mayonnaise. That jar in the remotest corner of the fridge flanked by salty capers, the creamy texture yellowed and hardened around the brim. Finally, it seemed to exhale when my mother took it out.
My nose right up over the table, peering over the wood surface, because there was no odor anticipating it, only the bzzz of the kitchen robot that had called me from my bedroom. Because its smell was so muffled, like it was the beige of its color, like it was the white cloth, boiled, which covered it, hiding it until a vapor cloud, like a breath of relief, came out from the corners that the fingers of my mother gently unfolded.
“Are you making the tuna loaf?” I then asked her almost in one breath.
And she nodded without too much enthusiasm, her dry hair fixed on the scalp, her eyes didn’t meet me, I was not sure if they even looked at the metal blades blending the mixture.
And I started running through the corridors, brimful of joy, because in the end, what more exciting can a seven-year-old girl expect from a Sunday afternoon?
We sat around the table at nine, nine and a half, always too late, we had already allowed those stupid evening entertainment programs to flood us with commonplaces.
“Don’t you eat?” To my mother, the red fire of the cigarette drag was the only signal proving me she was in the balcony wrapped in darkness.
“Mom eats after” she murmured.
My rounded knife plucked the mayonnaise’s thick surface to pick up a generous portion, flickering during the delicate journey to my plate, then I dropped it with a plop on the tuna loaf slice, without worrying about spreading it. The fork sectioned the thick surface of the slice into bows-shaped pieces, forking them as to not dropping the pale yellow dressing for any reason. Then I made each one plane into my mouth, the tuna loaf was still warm and it blended together with the greasy mayonnaise, almost no chewing was needed, they descended perfectly jointed to the bottom of my throat. Pure ten minutes of ecstasy, the speed at which I ended up my plate.
Then one day my mother lent the kitchen robot to my grandmother. She never brought it back.
“I’m sorry, but that blade did not turn very well already when you gave it to me…”
And there were the bills and the car’s battery that were more expensive and the tuna loaf was never made again.
“Cause mum need the big machine to prepare it”
I asked her so many times, I did not want to give up. But no, without the kitchen robot was really impossible.
And the mayonnaise expired, and we threw it away. Mom and dad divorced. And I took my degree and left home and country.
In Belgium they put mayonnaise everywhere.

We eat with auntie and Marty tomorrow when you arrive
Last seen at 17:45.
At 18:39:
Can you prepare the tuna loaf?
Seen without reply.

Rome is warm, tremendously hot, I am steamed in the long jeans and gray sweatshirt, this morning in Brussels there were seventeen degrees. But my mother is beautiful, her shiny hair picked up with an elegant slide, her eyes skirted by a graceful green emerald.
I place my luggage in the boot.
“What are your programs for the afternoon?” She asks.
“Studying, actually. Yours?”
“I have to cook for tonight”
“What do you make in the end?”
“The tuna loaf, as you asked me”
And at dinner, my mother turns to me, shaking slightly the piece of loaf, “That’s really tasty. I do not have the kitchen robot but I used the mixer instead, and it came good the same, didn’t it? ”
But I can just nod only, my mouth is too busy in chewing the loaf and the mayonnaise that finally had met again.

Number 9

Through a whisper
the yellow Monday
promises eternity

Through its tears
the scarlet Tuesday
salutes the sunset

Through a soired
soiree
the blue Thursday
kneels on the Sunday

At the time when the troubles has settled
under your skin
into your veins
when the head bursts of love
and collapse into a swirly farewell

Waiting for the Monday again
to swallow my memoirs
of a troubled soul
which I failed to grip hard enough
on my dry chest.

Number 2 – When You Were Young

You’re special.
You’re so special.
Don’t make anybody else telling you what or who you have to be.
Because there’s no one else like you.

Promises which get lost in the palms of the one who reads them. She looks familiar.

Summer, 1999.

The necklace tight on my neck, some beneficial stone hanging on it. A shirt made of an oil’s fabric.
You take a pair of scissors and you snip the borders.

Because you are getting bored.

On a seesaw, while the line of the horizon comes up and down from your nose, you dream about your future. About your friends. About traveling around the world. About the beautiful woman body you will have, about your actress, pianist, singer career.

But when you need it, you can’t ever find a tissue to blow your nose.

Winter 2014.

Rooms packed with things, mail never read, people to meet, work to be done. You slacken it off and you call it entropy.

School play, you sing the Pink Floyd behind a grey sheet. You follow your schoolmates and you rip it, but you hate the din that it makes and you don’t understand the meaning of the song.
A thin guy will explain it to you many years later.

You’ve filled your life of expectations that you consumed before living them. But now you are on a queue to cash them in. To get the entire specialness, beauty, inimitableness that you were promised. But it is a long and bastard queue, the people push, lug, pull your coat and pierce your eyes with their fingers.

Because they know that there won’t be for everyone.