Page 36 - October 2020
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Leyre Villate is a
                 writer, translator and                     Yet another leaf
                 educator. Her writings
                  have been published
                 in the literary Bengali                                Leyre Villate Garcia
                 magazine Parampara,
                 as well as in European
                 American (Dukool and
                     Mud Proposal)

               These  days  the  sun  forces  itself  into  my  room  in  the  late  mornings.  The  thick
               curtains do nothing to shield against it. I never want to wake up, but I always do.
               That light, and the sound of an inexhaustible lawnmower that some maniac uses
               from 8 am until lunchtime, are too unbearable to keep sleeping. I imagine the man
               —  it has to be a man —  any obsessive woman would clean over and over the
               same floors, dishes, furniture — not a lawn —  and I actually feel pity for him. How
               must it feel to need to mow the lawn every morning in order to maintain one's own

               sanity. I forgive him. Everyday it takes me around half an hour to forgive him.

               Once  the  man  is  forgiven  and  I  am  awake,  it's  time  for  coffee.  I  get  the  roasted
               ground  coffee  —    fair  trade  —  and  the  italian  coffee  maker  from  the  cupboard.
               Water, coffee, medium heat: I have perfected the process so that exactly at the time
               I finish washing and changing clothes the coffee is ready. With the first sip my day

               I  don't  know  which  day  of  the  week  it  is.  Through  the  kitchen  window  I  see  the
               same mountains, and they also don't know what day of the week it is. The mower is
               still audible in this part of the apartment, but softer, so much softer I have to listen
               to hear it. The clouds are slowly covering the highest peak. Today it will be a foggy

               The doorbell rings. I glance at the wall clock. It must be the maid. She’s ever so
               punctual. I open the door, we exchange pleasantries. It is indeed cool, she says. It
               may rain later. She gets to her work. Back in the kitchen, I finish my coffee. The

               empty  mug  looks  at  me  and  I  yawn.  I  pour  myself  another  cup  not  thinking  of

               There  is  no  point  in  thinking.  All  thinking  brings  is  clutter.  My  mind  is  full,  of
               memories,  of  memories  of  places,  of  events,  of  thoughts.  A  mind  needs
               maintenance too, just like a home. While the maid arranges and cleans room by
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