Marta Russo, Sociedade Portuguesa de Psicanálise On April 1st, a short, elderly woman moved into the apartment next door. I couldn't stop thinking about the wall with the soldiers, which I had seen that same day at dawn. How strange it was that my thoughts kept returning to that tiled wall. Even in Lisbon, it was still unusual in my mind. I closed the curtains, as the sun was high in the sky. The nausea wouldn't leave my stomach. How could it be a coincidence that the lady's son, in his neatly pressed uniform, had come to drop her off, along with her belongings, the day after I had come across that image? I tried to sleep. I think I managed it. At least two or three images of bobbing boats were Downstairs, I hear the vacuum cleaner, the sound even lulling me. But in my concern, which inhibits my sleep and clearer dreams, remains the uniform. Honestly, I don't know what uniform it is. I don't understand anything about ranks, functions, and hierarchies. How should I know if he's a sailor or a marine! I think he left. Did he leave his mother alone? Or is it his grandmother? Last night I ended up walking aimlessly. I tried to ignore the slight fear I felt when I was alone on the street. After all, this is a safe city. What I have inside me is something very big and unsafe. Or maybe it's cruel. When the sun goes down, I'll go out again, but I won't pass by the tile panel, nor will I visit the new neighbor: “If you need anything, I'm right next door.” No, no! I'm not! I'm gone, I don't want to see her, unless it's through the peephole in the door, where I spy on her and her son. Or grandson? Yao Lin, China Study Group in Wuhan On April 1st, a short, elderly woman moved into the apartment next door. The woman who used to live there had already passed away, and now there was a new hostess. My family told me she was also in her second marriage. etched in my memory, so I think I dreamed... Or was it my stomach mixing with the sea? Back in my hometown, I remember many women who passed away early, who died from illness, and also those who are still alive now, like the new hostess next door. These women were so familiar to me in my childhood—Sister Qiuhua, my aunt, Genguzi’s mother, and the neighbor’s grandma. When I was little, they often looked after me. If my parents weren’t home, I would stay with the neighbor’s grandma. She would cook while I followed her around, or make zongzi while I stood by watching. Those were beautiful times, full of warm memories, but now they have all faded away.
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