da Blackbird Pie, Torta di merli, di RAYMOND CARVER
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| RAYMOND CARVER |
Siamo arrivati al capolinea. Tra noi è finita.
Eppure, adesso vorrei che avessimo potuto parlarne.
Dear,
Things are not good. Things, in fact, are bad. Things have gone from bad to worse. And you know what I'm talking about. We've come to the end of the line. It's over with us. Still, I find myself wishing we could have talked about it.
It's been such a long time now since we've talked. I mean really «talked». Even after we were married we used to talk and talk, exchanging news and ideas. When the children were little, or even after they were more grown-up, we still found time to talk.
It was more difficult then, naturally, but we managed. We found time. We «made» time. We'd have to wait until after they were asleep, or else when they were playing outside, or with a sitter. But we managed. Sometimes we'd engage a sitter just so we «could» talk. On occasion we talked the night away, talked until the sun came up.
Well. Things happen, I know. Things change. Bill had that trouble with the police, and Linda found herself pregnant, etc. Our quiet time together flew out the window. And gradually your responsibilities backed up on you. Your work became more important, and our time together was squeezed out.
Then, once the children left home, our time for talking was back. We had each other again, only we had less and less to talk about. «It happens,» I can hear some wise man saying. And he's right. «It happens.» But it happened to us.
In any case, no blame. «No blame.» That's not what this letter is about. «I want to talk about us.» I want to talk about us «now.» The time has come, you see, to admit that «the impossible has happened. To cry «uncle.» To beg off. To...
