O Eriana

I knock on your door, knuckles soft against the wood. O, Eriana, open the door.

I knock again, and look over my shoulder in case someone from your village walks past. It is a small village, even for the north of Spain, with a single shop for bread and meats around the back of the church. Everyone knows you here, would recognise me in an instant. Knowing what I did, they’d chase me away and forbid me from ever coming back.

O, Eriana. I knock again. I know you don’t want me to leave. Open the door, tell me it isn’t too late. 

Thankfully, you live on the edge of the village, up in the mountains where your house is shielded by forest trees. I was sorry to hear your father passed away. He was a good man, a brave one, who hid soldiers and political refugees.

I knock again. I’m so sorry I left. Are you there? Can you hear me?

I hear the floorboards creek, from the back of your house, past the staircase and into the hallway. I close my eyes, imagining you are behind the door, inches away. To be in your presence again, Eriana, to pull you to me and feel your perfect body pressed against mine. To just smell your hair again, o Eriana, what I wouldn’t give. 

I knock again.

‘Mama,’ I hear a little voice say. Our son. 

The floorboards creek. You rush to him. Tender woman.

‘Escuché tocar a la puerta, Mama, I heard knocking.’

‘There’s nothing to worry about, mi corazon, es solo el viento it’s just the wind.’

‘Is it the forest ghosts Mama?’

‘Yes,’ I hear you laugh, ‘son los fantasmas del bosque it is the forest ghosts. They are very friendly and want to play.’

‘Cuéntame una historia, por favor, tell me a story’

‘No puedo mi amor, a otra vez.’

‘You are tired Mama?’

‘Yes’

‘You will still take me to see Papa tomorrow? I can wear my green jacket?’

My heart soars. I will see you tomorrow. I feel foolish, almost, for not being able to stay away.

‘Por supuesto que puedes,’ I hear the smile in your voice.

‘Will he like it?’

‘Your papa will love it. You know how proud he is of you. You know he loves you very much.’

‘You still love him, don’t you Mama?’

I hear your silence, that momentary hesitation, before you say that you do. I’m not sure whose heart you’re trying not to break by lying. His or mine.

O Eriana I’m so sorry. I wish I had never left. I sit down on the steps of your house, and wish I had roll-ups to smoke. It would be something to do with my hands, with my mind. The light in our boy’s room goes off. I hear you go into the kitchen. I want to knock again.

I knock. Take me in o tender woman. We can drink the wine I bought last Christmas and talk it over. Take me in for heaven’s sake.

I know you can hear me, that you’ve heard me every night. I never meant to hurt you, it breaks my heart that I did.

You tell the boy it was an accident, make him honour me with flowers and weekly visits. You’re trying to protect him, or perhaps you’re concealing the truth from yourself as much as from him. But soon he will five, then six, and he will know. His friends at school will tell him if he doesn’t guess. He’ll know what every person in the village hasn’t had the heart to tell you, that no man falls off a bridge by accident.

Forgive me, Eriana, and open the door.

Even when you don’t see me, when you scream out at the wind and fall down to the floor, I am here. I cannot stay away.

I won’t leave, won’t stop knocking until you open the door.