Today you would have turned one day older.
I haven’t said it out loud.
It wasn’t necessary. The day arrived anyway.
Everything stays in its place.
The house hasn’t changed.
Not the light.
Not the sound of water when I turn the tap.
The chair is still where it was.
Nobody has moved it.
Nobody knows where to put it.
I opened the window without thinking.
The air came in slowly, as if it recognised the space.
And for a second —just one—
the body stopped.
As if it had heard something.
Then it corrects itself.
It always corrects itself.
I kept doing what needed to be done.
Like every day.
Closing doors.
Leaving things half-finished.
Moving through the house without making noise.
I made it to the threshold of your room.
I turned back.
There are gestures that don’t leave.
They stay running.
As if someone had left them switched on.
Today you would have turned one day older.
I looked at the calendar.
More than necessary.
Not because it was going to change anything.
But because of that absurd idea
that if you look long enough,
something eventually fits.
But it doesn’t fit.
It’s not a day that’s missing.
It’s someone.
And that doesn’t correct itself.
Everything else continues.
Everything continues.
The house.
The air.
The gestures.
Even this day.
Which arrived like all the others.
Without asking
where to put you.