Cristina Martinez

Oranges and Dreams

The blue sea is coming in through the windows.
She is sitting quietly in front of her wooden desk with the posture of a Queen.
She writes and writes and her burgundy pashmina slides softly onto her lap, brightening the darkness of the blue velvet dress.
Her white hands are still beautiful. Her nails perfectly clean and filed.
A small ceramic fireplace bursts with oranges and reds and the crackling logs break the silence of the room.
An old Persian rug defines the floor with little flowers, shapes and forms. The rug on which all her children played and walked, ate and grew.
Her hair is long and white, tied up in a round shape at the back of her head with an ivory stick. Only few locks of hair dare to escape the multitude and gracefully hang on the side of her wrinkled face.
“I went to the market this morning and walked straight to the pile of orange oranges and I couldn’t resist buying half a kilo for myself. I bought some vegetables but I forgot about the ginger and turmeric for my chest remedy. I got home and cut the fruit into pieces. I’ve used some cinnamon and honey and now my hands still smell of the sour and sweet tastes of my lunch.
Thank you Life for a delicious treat on this cold afternoon”.

I am eight years old but I don’t care because I know that I am much older than everyone thinks. I am sitting at my desk playing with papers from last year’s work at school.
I am somebody’s secretary.
I pretend that I am busy, that I have a life on my own and I don’t have time for anything else.
I am a woman pretending to be beautiful and desirable to men.
I am bored with my life, parents and brothers.
I don’t want to be here.
I would like my prince to come now and take me on his horse to Wonderland and never come back.
I don’t like my life nor myself.
I hate the world for being the way it is. I am safe here, in my room, with myself.

“Thank you Universe for my life and all the people that I have met along the way.
It is amazing! Such a long journey and yet it feels no longer than seven minutes.
I would never have imagined that my life was going to be like this.
Sometimes I ask myself, why so much worrying? Why all the excitement and pressure, if everything is so simple and beautiful?
Life is a miracle!
Every day brings whatever we need to be here for. Alive! To breathe!
And listen to my heart.
Wonderful stories of my heart in my chest drawer . Stories that I am going to write for my grandchildren. Stories that cannot die with me.

I am sixteen and about to get married. Everyone is telling me what to do, where to go, what to buy, even what to say on every occasion.
I am tired and I don’t want to keep quiet any longer. Fuck all of you!
I don’t want to get married.
I don’t want to have this baby. I don’t know if I want to be alive.
Don’t tell me what to do. Don’t tell me if it was right or wrong, just love me, please!
Don’t push me into the unknown. Don’t press my buttons and don’t set the pavement for me to walk on. I have hands and feet. I have two eyes and a head. I have a brain that works perfectly. So please, don’t tell me what to do with my life, just love me.
Can you love me? Here and now?

“I remember my parents when I was sixteen, pregnant with my first baby. Poor mother! She was so worried about what the people were going to say.
What a journey into life: pregnancy, travelling, divorce, children, yoga, projects, more children and helping the world to grow up.
Schools and food, love to spread everywhere.
Children that came like flowers in spring to my path, to me. Lives that I had the pleasure to witness and touch.
Thank you for my life.”

Her back rests against the chair. Her silver pen sleeps besides her pages and in her hands a clay bowl with some juice and honey left from her lunch. She is staring into the blue ocean, through the window. The constant death of the waves onto the shore and then back into the ocean again.

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