Summer warmed the open window of her honeymoon

Que les aparences enganyen és una aportació del coneixement ordinari a la qual, amb el temps, un dóna la dimensió que li pertoca: la d'enorme certesa. Hi penso quan, com aquest cap de setmana, m'adono que tot i que aparentment les coses poden torçar-se per si soles, una pretèrita mala tria o la incompetència generalitzada en múltiples preferències guarden una bona dosi de responsabilitat i es reivindiquen des de les butxaques descosides de la memòria.

Llavors, en el penediment poc concís i escèptic (potser infonamentat?), tot s'explica molt més fàcilment: Ens hem fet grans, però també inútils, si no trobem ningú de matinada en un dilluns d'insomni com avui a qui creiem prou disposat a escoltar-nos plorar des de l'altra banda del telèfon. El molestaré. La molestaré.

Al cap i a la fi, no ens passa res. Només hem escoltat aquesta cançó, hem llegit la lletra i hem pensat en la mare. I en la significació de "sol" sense tabús. I demà arribarem tard a la feina segur...

"Passing afternoon", Iron & Wine


There are times that walk from you like some passing afternoon
Summer warmed the open window of her honeymoon
And she chose a yard to burn but the ground remembers her
Wooden spoons, her children stir her Bougainvillea blooms

There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days
Autumn blew the quilt right off the perfect bed she made
And she's chosen to believe in the hymns her mother sings
Sunday pulls its children from their piles of fallen leaves

There are sailing ships that pass all our bodies in the grass
Springtime calls her children 'till she let's them go at last
And she's chosen where to be, though she's lost her wedding ring
Somewhere near her misplaced jar of Bougainvillea seeds

There are things we can't recall, blind as night that finds us all
Winter tucks her children in, her fragile china dolls
But my hands remember hers, rolling 'round the shaded ferns
Naked arms, her secrets still like songs I'd never learned

There are names across the sea, only now I do believe
Sometimes, with the windows closed, she'll sit and think of me
But she'll mend his tattered clothes and they'll kiss as if they know
A baby sleeps in all our bones, so scared to be alone