The sun to stop time

The pile of clothes on the bed grew. Sandra made to try on a black flowered skirt on a white background in front of the mirror. She put it on her waist and stared at it, imagining how it would look on her. This image brought back memories of an evening at the beach, so many years before, she was still a teenager. Louise was wearing this skirt on tanned skin, her legs crossed so that one knee was exposed.  Suddenly he recovered. “No, no, not this one… too old-fashioned. I decided to just keep something as a keepsake.” Her thought was interrupted by the mackerel man.“Madam, what does this do? Does he take it or not?”Looking out the door he was showing her a medium-sized mirror with a gilt frame."No, no, leave it, I won't take that."He had to hurry, another half hour and the movers would have finished dismantling and loading the few pieces of furniture he had decided to take with him. Everything else would have remained there, donated to the parish, which would have collected it on its own.He walked over to the bedside table. She opened the drawer: a pillbox, a packet of tissues, an old book, a beaded bracelet. He took it out and, reluctantly, emptied it over the big garbage bag, throwing everything away.It was then that the floral paper that covered it came off from the bottom and a sheet, folded on itself, fell to the ground. Sandra bent down and picked it up. “How strange,” she thought, “it was hidden.” He opened it and started reading.It's night. Far away I hear the noise of the jungle, animal cries or maybe not… The night belongs to Charlie. I can not sleep. I think about you. The marijuana smoke and swigs of whiskey rekindled my thoughts instead of shutting them down. Under this tent, only the smell of death. Destruction and misery. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I've decided to drop everything. I come to you. I wanted to participate, not simply against. Convenient to dispute, without being aware of it, without feeling. Click. Click. Click. I will look for the truth elsewhere. I can't like this. I sensed, then saw, lived, stole, then spewed it all out. But I can't steal. The more you pull, the more it bounces back at you, just like a rubber band. Trials, then mistakes. I also return defeated. Bob

What was that, a letter? Very unusual, it was not addressed to anyone in particular, nor was it dated. Maybe a sheet was missing? More than a story, they seemed like thoughts, reflections, confused and brief, but deliberately shared, as if they had a meaning for whoever would have read them. Who was that man? Why was that paper hidden in his mother's nightstand? Bob… who was Bob? He didn't remember anyone with that name.

Frowning, she folded the paper and put it in her pocket.He stuffed the chosen clothes into a bag and left the house in a strange restlessness.“Guys, I'm going, I'll wait for you at the depot. You close."“Okay ma'am, we're almost done, see you there.”

His mother's death had been painful, he had seen her suffer in the last months of her illness. His loss brought a great deal of sadness to her, but it didn't weigh much on her. He was a little ashamed of this. They had never been really close. The relationship with her had gradually degenerated, they had progressively drifted apart since Louise had moved upstate to the country house after her husband's death. Attentive mother, yes, but too distant. Now she wondered if she had been a happy woman, and answered that she had seemed so. Very busy with her work as a teacher, present and attentive to her husband. So why did all these thoughts pop up more and more in his mind?It had been that letter, that strange letter, she was sure of it. Those words tormented her. What was hidden in his mother's life? He had to find out.

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