The list of sinners

...Celia...

Among the many pairs of eyes, the wallpapered walls were the first to truly confirm that I was at home. Sprawled out, I reached my hand towards the sun's rays that were falling vertically on my blanket. Unlike Connecticut, it was warmer here, like December. That sun was exactly what I wanted after that storm... I wanted to bloom again.

I quickly got dressed and went downstairs to find my father, not wanting to lose even a minute without him. I remembered that evening when I arrived home, bursting into tears in front of my father. He asked me to tell him the reason, but what I told him was the truth as he needed to know.

I found my father in his work studio. He was an illustrator of books, and lately, it seemed like he had a lot of work. I found him with his head over papers, forming concrete figures created by the stroke of a black pencil. I didn't know what he was working on, but it was clear that it was taking time.

"Good morning," I said, entering his studio.

"Oh Celia... just a minute to gather these."

"No problem, I didn't want anything anyway," I said, waving my hands in denial. The house was very quiet.

"It used to be like this..."

My father paused for a moment with his hand on the papers gathered in a column. His eyes fixed on the first page of the papers, and he seemed lost in thoughts. I knew what was the headline in his thoughts. It reflected in his eyes and in his lips that occasionally trembled and then spread into a straight line of a smile.

I missed my mother too, just like him. Our house was swaying in a silence that seemed openly visible, but we were making a hollow eye. We tried hard not to leave anything missing as in the old times, but nothing was like before. Nothing was the same as it used to be.

"I miss mom too," I said, wrapping my arms around myself in a hug gesture.

"It's so obvious who I think of, isn't it?"

I nodded slightly in agreement.

"Dad, I've never asked you how you met mom."

"It still feels like today when I saw her in the school corridors... she stood out with those red hair. We were in the same high school but in different years. She was a quiet type who didn't have many friends except for a friend who was close to her as far as I remember. Every time I saw her, she was surrounded by books... she loved to read endlessly, so I made an effort to escape from class hours and go to the library where I often found her. I was the first, besides her friend, to approach her with a clear intention beyond friendship, and she gave me a chance. We spent time together when we could during school and after school, we met and talked about books. I still remember her desire to write a book, and maybe this was somewhat the push to become an illustrator. She chose me as her companion at the balloon event organized at the end of high school, for which I didn't hesitate for a second. It was clear that we were made for each other and time proved it very well, I believe, but apparently the word generally is only for memories and not for people.

My mother was the ideal person to make me smile from head to toe. Every day was different, every day had a series of little things. Those small games like, for example, in which hand the biscuit was, or which route we would take to return from school, or even if we would pass by or splash in the water puddles, every day made it different.

In an ordinary life, she made it extraordinary, not because we were given so much, but because she made it seem like we had so much more. As the baker turned flour and water into bread, just as God turned seed and water into flowers, my mother turned daily life into enchantment and love.

"The love you have for her is not extinguished yet. I wish someone would see me as you still see mom."

"I swear it will be like that."

"How about we make mom's apple tart after lunch?" I asked.

"I wouldn't hesitate for anything in the world."

She was a mother that everyone would love. She always addressed my emotional needs first before speaking about the situation I was in, logically. It was the safest place where you could anchor your heart and feel highly valued, as I still did with her.

"Let me peel the apples," my father said, taking them from my hands.

"I remember when mom used to do this...," I said, mixing the ingredients.

"Do you remember when she tried it with the yellow apples?"

"I was a child then, and whether I liked it or not, it seemed sweet to me, but I remember it didn't taste so good to you."

"Yellow apples were a waste of time. Not sweet enough for an apple tart. They're not right for a quick meal, they just don't work. Not red enough. The apples need to be red, Celia, for this tart to have the right taste."

"Only those seem to work."

I felt my father's gaze over my whole being. I was dressed head to toe with his eyes.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I asked, arranging the apples in a circular manner around the tray. "I got dirty on my face or something?"

"Celia... just never wait for your hair."