‘Cherry...’ he said, ‘I want to be your pip...’ he said

and held her like a wooden Christ,

an ancient Christ he had found in the attic

covered with the old dry grass, a few days ago.

‘Can a Saint be ancient..?’ she asked, ’I mean- getting old means the same as getting closer to the death, doesn’t it?’

He jumped out of her bed, frightened,

and picked the wooden figure lying on the table

‘Cherry...’he said

unsurely, all the air around was trembling, his voice was like a trampoline that would fling away anything that would fall on it. She was so afraid to say a single word,

she was even afraid to see his face -or let’s say: the way he had to face than- so she closed her eyes, she closed her ears,

just hold out her sweating palm to touch his nose,

his lips. Anything she would remember.

But her palm reached just a cold wooden sharp-edged cross.

‘Cherrie...’he tried to say and having nothing else to say he left the place.

Later at night still holding the wooden Christ, she put some clothes on, lighted the lights, sat to the table, took a little knife and started to carve the ancient wood.

She was holding a little cherry-like pip, when the sun

arrived to her bedroom. She just laughed,

threw the knife away and ran down to the garden,

where she buried the pip into the cold soft earth.

And she’s been standing there for years, under the yellowish sky,

waiting for her new husband to grow.