a squashed orange



It was in the afternoon that he felt the need to be close to her. It was a pure need and simple
affection. A simplicity that would definitely not fit the Hollywood movie scenario where all is just
so perfect that none could live up to it.
It was the peace, the small piece of peace he would get by being in her room.
It was her room his sister's room, a room that now was empty. She would never return, only he
could go to her.
The smell, her smell was a piece of peace. A soft; discreet smell; the sent of a squashed
orange. An orange on the verge of being considered off, by northern european standards and
just ripe according to the southerners.
Her room still intact was holding that sent. The curtains were drawn but the shutters were
open. She always closed the shutters at night. He mechanically went through the motions. He
lied down on her bed to grasp a piece of her peace. He kissed the pillow, trying to capture her
It felt as if a long time had passed, he thought someone would notice his absence.
No one did. It was he, that was preventing himself from fully, endorsing his discovery, of this
precious piece of peace.
A moment passed; maybe a minute or an hour, someone walked across the hallway.
He jumped out of bed. He sat on the chair. The footsteps were now fading.
He stood up. Walked around the chair, moved it quietly. Lied again on the bed. He feel asleep
in his sister’s bed.
It was at sunrise that the storm hit again and woke him up.
He had a piece of peace.
He moved to his bed, only for an hour, he had to get up. He had to carry around now his piece
of peace. An unbearable, yet sweet load. A paradox to cherish.
'a piece of peace'