As if I met her

This is the second summer in a row when we had to dump books, cloths and clothes, boxes, bed sheets, blankets, coats, sweaters and cardigans, shoes and boots, and old pictures. Tearing off the latter and throwing them away felt like killing the second time memories of people who, in most part, are already dead. Particularly, I will never forget the portrait of a young lady—she must have been in her early thirties, of Scandinavian origin —that was framed in a sort of blue-grayish carton, with a heart-shaped opening, her face almost breaking into a timid smile. As most of the pictures were mercilessly thrown into green plastic bags, it was that young woman’s picture’s turn; still, I could not bear the thought of dumping it into the bag, although I could not have possibly met her, still not being able to escape the remorse that I would have felt, had I carelessly thrown her photo into an abyss of filth and, ultimately, humiliation. The picture still carried the meaning of a human being that, for one reason or another, seemed so alive.

 

Then, just like some people considering euthanasia for their beloved ones (with their agreement, most of the time), I thought that she would be relieved if I tore her picture into small, unidentifiable pieces, and she’d die, once again, with the dignity she well deserves.