Fran’s melancholy


She said to count the little things I do as a sign of me being engulfed by the world and let what I say be a sign of being locked up in a miss shaped universe.

I counted her tears, and they out numbered her freckles as we sat in somber silence.  “Do you believe that people can tell the secrets you carry within you?” her raspy worn out voiced spoke to me as I began to braid her fuzzed up hair to create some organisation on her. “I don’t know Fran; I honestly don’t know.” It would have been easy to come up with some crazy theory, but at that moment I could do nothing but be truly honest. That for the first time I was speechless and had no answers.

She looks in the distance as I finish the French plat. “I lost my brother,” Fran mutters out. What can you say when somebody has lost a loved one? I let go of the plat and pat her back sympathetically “I’m sorry that’s tough.”

Fran’s gaze rests on me as I can see her tears building up. “Would you believe me if I told you that I never cry, I mean it was tough for me to shed a tear about anything after my brother’s death.” Fran looks at me and holds her cold hand out towards me. “No, I wouldn’t have believed that you couldn’t cry Fran.” Her hand grasps mine tight as she leans against my shoulder and begins to shed tears into the empty night.

“That’s melancholy Elle it sucks you in and takes all of you until all that’s left is a shadow of you existing between life and death.” Fran mummers as the cold air settle on us. I want to tell her it’s okay that she’s not alone, but all the books I’ve read are flooding my head and like a doctor prescribing medicine I begin to diagnose her life’s melancholy into something less dramatic. It had to become less emotional and more clinical.


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