The Immutable...Mutates

The moonlight bathed the forest warmly, and from the terrace, the scents of the countryside drifted in, infused with the fragrance of ripe figs that, like tears, hung from the milky branches. Fireflies danced at the far end of the garden, and near the pond, frogs croaked. The breeze was gentle, yet it stirred the curtains, which rose like graceful dancers, brushing her back with touches as light as feathers, weaving her into a yearning for other summers, for her youth lost in that attic of her memory, where each day the recollections grew more disordered, scattering between what had been and what she wished had been. At this stage in her life, it was difficult to discern between those two possibilities.

Sometimes, so absorbed in the day-to-day, it seemed to her that none of it was real, that the lost paradise didn’t exist, that the old ancestral home was merely a dream. But she had returned. Here were her dead, and here was her beginning—always, her beginning. This time, she had not come seeking refuge, nor to find inspiration, nor to remind herself of who she was and what she wanted. She hadn’t come to rebuild herself once again and rise, phoenix-like, from the ashes. And yet, it seemed she was being compelled to do so. Beyond that house, everything was changing at a dizzying pace. The paths were now roads, the forest a nature reserve, the ancient trees giving way to new plantations, and its wondrous fountains and hidden nooks, once secret havens, had become points of interest for all who passed by.

She closed her eyes. The immutable was changing, and she wasn’t sure she could bear it. But now, more than ever, she had to cling to the philosophy she so often preached: she was just passing through. “Passing through,” she whispered to herself, “don’t forget—we are just passing through.”

I, called Jimena (Part 3)