01. My mother is afraid of loneliness

My mother is afraid of loneliness. She’s watching me helplessly – even telenovelas fail to make her feel better. She’s staring at me like some fearful young heifer. Not to worry, I’m cheering her up, just as loneliness tears a chunk off of her. You’re not afraid of loneliness? she asks me, lips covered in blood. No way, I reply . . . I was lying, of course, and my mother lashed out at me with a thistle. And so violet was it that suddenly evening descended.

01. My mother is afraid of loneliness

Moeder is bang voor de eenzaamheid. Ze kijkt me machteloos aan – zelfs bij soapseries voelt ze zich niet beter. Ze kijkt me aan als een schrikachtig vaarskalf. Er is geen reden toe, zeg ik bemoedigend, terwijl de eenzaamheid een flinke brok van haar afrukt. Ben jij dan niet bang? vraagt ze met bebloede lippen. Nee, antwoord ik. Natuurlijk loog ik en moeder striemde me met een distel. En die was zo paars, dat het plots avond werd.

Mama se teme de singurătate. Mă priveşte neputincioasă – nici măcar telenovelele n-o fac să se simtă mai bine. Se uită la mine ca o viţeluşă spăimoasă. N-ai de ce, o încurajez eu, în timp ce singurătatea smulge o halcă din ea. Ţie nu ţi-e teamă, mă întreabă ea cu buzele însîngerate? Nu, îi răspund. Minţeam desigur şi mama m-a plesnit cu un scaiete. Şi era atît de violet, încît brusc s-a lăsat înserarea.