8 years

Today, it’s been eight years since I’ve moved from South Africa to Portugal.
8.
I don’t quite know what to make of that number –

such a wobbly figure, and if it falls over, it’s an eternity.

(If made to stand again, it’s an empty hourglass.)

Two small globes, one on top of the other: my world here; my world there.
The O of surprise and the O of sighing that mark a migrant life.
A precarious balance, sliding mercurial balls holding each other in tension.
But holding each other, still.

And so I hold on too,

the ones I love on both sides,

the endless longing,

the story of two rings and two adventurous hearts

kept and woven into 8’s cross-armed embrace.

Where I’m calling from (to be continued)

speak stoic there

wish

her stoic presence

the stillness of her thoughts

and the trees

singing forever

*

I came across these sculptures in the garden of the Fine Arts Faculty of Porto University… on another walk (re)discovering the neighbourhood around my office.  Interesting how quickly the strange becomes familiar, the road a routine…even so, some days one awakes to the sky, a newspaper kiosk never noticed before, your face in an antique mirror left on the sidewalk.