Gray clouds gather over my head. It’s getting cold, even though it’s summer. Goodbye to my afternoon in the garden under the warm rays of the sun.
The scent of jasmine invades me and fills my soul, as the first drops of rain begin to fall. My leg hurts, more than yesterday. Maybe I shouldn’t have let them operate on me. But my doctor insisted. He told me that survival with chemotherapy and surgery was more likely than with chemo alone.
Before the first downpour, I take refuge under the great oak, walking slowly, aided by my cane. I sit on my old wooden and wrought iron bench. Just in time. It’s good watching the rain while you’re sheltered.
My son comes, alarmed.
“Dad! What are you doing here? You’re going to get sick.”
“I’m already sick. I’m enjoying life. I will not choose my moments according to the weather report.”
I realize that he doesn’t understand me. He thinks I’m demented. I take his hand and look into his eyes.
“Could you bring me a lemon tea? I’ll stay here a little longer.”
I watch him go under the pouring rain and I know it’s going to be tough.
Marcelo Medone (Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1961) is a fiction writer, poet and screenwriter. His work has received awards and has been published in magazines and books, both in digital and paper format, individually or in anthologies, in various languages, in more than 30 countries all over the world.
Love this. Just enough.