Gabriëlla Cleuren

My sister stands centrally against a white wall of metal plates.

Her husband stands at a black gate, vividly indicating with his hands the direction of travel : drive on to the courtyard where the sun shines fiercely.

A black bird : death flies up and away.

My head is black with tristesse and in the purple of thoughts I ask myself many questions after her death . Why? She was still so lively and clever? She did her hair one last time ( unsuspecting)

They take us upstairs: Philip and I up the stairs , where she shows her house, newly decorated : she is a thoroughbred artiste, proud and generous with attitude yet warmth. 

She has prepared a sumptuous coffee table and we set up for the meal by invitation .

She serves a final scrambled egg made and served her way.

At the table Paul and Philip face each other and I face my sister. Afterwards we both give kisses and leave unsuspecting. Why not suspect! No hint at the coming drama. Why?

The signs : the red heart crossed, the mouth that did not speak, the eye that perceived without seeing. The stairs that must be, mounted, with many footsteps.

 The warm sun that shines, its warmth.

I am terribly sorry for the words I did not speak : how beautiful everything was from this furnishing artist, sister, paying tribute to all the work she bought from me . Nothing! They could have been my last words of encouragement. Nothing! Nothing!

Too late!
Drawing as last memories captured in characters on handmade Japanese paper.