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the foreign daughter
so. Tonight was like that, on
occasion, very occasionally.
At times they seemed
eternal, unbearable, and
suffocatingly claustrophobic;
more than once I almost got
up and fled on the spot. I
can’t stand anymore, I told
myself, blindly touching the
Formica bedside table. A cold,
gleaming antiquated Formica,
engrained as if it were wood
from a real tree. Where have
you ever seen a grey tree?
I’ve always thought it was a
pretentious little table with
those rusty legs. Formica
that’s not engrained, that’s all
smooth and synthetic, seems
more real and worthier. These
thoughts struck me early this
morning as I put my fingers on
the cold surface and curbed
the impulse to run away
immediately. Behind the wall
separating me from her, my
mother was breathing deeply
and loudly, and it soothed me
to think she was asleep, that
the turmoil she’d suffer in
the course of the day would
be less painful if she’d been
able to rest. Perhaps this will
be the one last night before
many when she will no longer
sleep, and will no longer live
the way she has lived till now.
When the alarm went off I
did what I always do. I washed
my face and put the coffeepot
on to boil. I glanced round
the kitchen and realised
that in the future it would
be heartening to remember
every detail, that after a time
I will start wondering: what
were the cupboard doors
like?; what material were the
handles?; what was the colour
of the floor-tiles? I scrutinised
everything so as to remember
that long, narrow kitchen
forever. Its yellow furniture,
the cheap, tacky compound