The sunlight makes the air shimmer. I wake up under the olive tree under which we made our beds. How long had we slept? I don’t know. It is summer. I do not know more. I don’t need to know more. We live with the change of the seasons. Spring is leaving and summer is coming. Summer goes by and autumn is coming. Autumn is passing and winter is coming. We live with the blossoming and dying of nature. I turn to you. You are still asleep. I want to stroke your cheek, but I’ll leave it at that because you’re exhausted. You have a difficult task ahead of you. You should not wake up before time. It is not time yet. There is a time for everything. Now is the time for you to sleep, to recover a little. It’s not time yet.
The snow fell from the sky in thick flakes. It had snowed for weeks. The winter had been going on for an unusually long time. It became more and more difficult to find something in the forest. One day I was on my way to collect firewood and when I returned to my hut with it, you were lying in the snow, right in front of the door of my hut. I dropped the wood and dragged you inside. You were half frozen and weakened, wounded in body and soul when I laid you on my bed. I warmed you and examined your wounds. Your limp, starved body was littered with wounds and the fever hit you hard, but there was also a pain that went much deeper than the physical, much deeper than all your open wounds put together. It was the pain in you that made its way in wild feverish fantasies. You were unconscious and yet you were speaking, all the time, words that were indefinable. He wanted to get out of you, this pain that could not be articulated.
You open your eyes, blink blindly into the sun. Fine shadows appear on your face and worry too. Still you smile at me. I smile back. There is no other answer. There is no more to say, if you don’t want to destroy it, all that is said in this smile and in the look that envelops and protects me, a look that captures me and welcomes me so comfortably and gives me security, like only this can. Maybe it is not long, our story, but every moment when we approach each other lives in this smile, in this look. There is no more to be said. Nothing more can be said. More can never be said.
I cleaned your wounds and healed them with herbs, and slowly the winter was drawing to a close. As bitterly cold as it was, the approaching spring was forgiving and warming. Your body slowly recovered and we could go out into the sunshine. I still had to support you, but you recovered, but your mind was still clouded by this pain, which I could not heal with my herbs and bandages. And after a long time you opened up and told me your story. The pain found a way.
Your gaze still rests in mine, gently embracing me, and the world is in it, as we are in the world. No matter what is in store for us, it is good, when I was able to experience it, this look, this with and in one another, this way of loving and being.