Myriam Angelica's Poetry & Prose

It was supposed to be a memorable date. She became 60 years old, that was back in 2003. A dinner was organised. Friends from old times were invited and came. The room was decorated with the flower arrangements representing the greetings from each of her children. All this was organised by her daughter, the only one of her four children there with her.

There were smiling faces across the table. Strangely, nobody spoke to her directly, apart from the polite words asking how she was, whether she wanted this or that. She felt like a convalescent person coming back from a near death experience, which she wasn't.

What do you say to a retornado? How do you bridge those almost 30 years of absence? Is there anything left from her relation with those supposed friends?

Everything felt fake and shabby. She felt like disappearing and going back to her life in London,. At least there was a community to which she could relate through the work she did when she was there. Nothing was here to make her feel part of this weird country which seemed to delight in its malls and be strangely ignorant of the poverty around the corner.