Should I be praying instead? I ask the man on the bridge. The snow falling slowly. Softly. It makes everything seem cosy. But cold. The snow fall on the bridge. The snow fall on London. The snow fall on the willow, bare and leafless.
What does your heart tell you? Clint Eastwood replies.
I want to fly away to Tahiti where the sun still shines. I careless tell him, I want to ride the camels and see sphinxes bloating in the Arabian sun. Is that wrong?
What about your papers? Your work? Your typewriter, and your essays to write?
I don’t know. Should I be praying instead?
What does your heart tell you?
My heart tells me that I should carry on talking with you even though it’s cold. And the river is eerily quiet.
I have nothing to add. Nor does Clint. He looks away to the city. One day everything will make sense. Your mind cannot understand for now. Your heart longs for something you do not know what it is.
How long will it be till it makes sense? This alien longing for more. This dark foreboding longing for something beautiful. The nirvana. The shangri-la. The helen. How long will I have to wake up in mornings and snuff out remains of dreams with bitter coffee? How long till I never have to wake up or how long till I never have to sleep?
The man on the bridge who is my father stands near me. I can sense his warmth and his poncho and it is comforting to know he is there. He has answers to everything. And for now the answer is to stand silently under the falling snow watching London houses get cloaked in white.
We remain so quiet we can hear the swish of snow fluffs dropping. We can hear the river passing us by, rippling, sounding like a thousand cats lapping up water with their tongues.