I, THE WITNESS

by
Clare Azzopardi

her body felt cumbersome pointless she was laughing and screaming and called Andr� to tell him their marriage was destined to remain a pencilled scrawl but Andr� didn�t understand and then fully clothed a drenched dance in the bathtub on the table on the couch on the windowsill where she munched on carrots and thought her legs were growing longer and touching the street below to the verses of Carlos�s poems and all the feelings the poems engendered she flicked away borne on the ashes from a pack of 20

twenty fags� worth of feeling had ebbed away by dusk and her legs dangling six storeys above street level hadn�t grown any longer
the hell are they? definitely had another pack maybe on the windowsill probably wondering whether or not to take the plunge or then again in the bath cleansing themselves of my sins?

So she called Them and prayed it wouldn�t be last night�s man at their end.
Help me she told the tired voice.
I want... I want...

when she calmed down she fell asleep under a blanket of ash from burnt poems the smoke waking her up quite late the next morning to tap another dream into her laptop and that done it was the hair long strands of hair shorn off while she danced among the wedding gifts from it seemed so long ago swaying as she had done that day glass of red in hand while she nibbled cauliflower blossoms which who knows might make the hair grow back in curls rose-scented with the memories of othertime
and then he turns up

the fuck�s going on? you out of your fucking mind? the place is minging of alcohol and what�s with all the hair? the fuck�s this all about?
Bang goes the fridge door
listen, you listen to me
Bang goes the fridge door
�nother one like this, I�ll fucking kill you

the wedding dress dangling from the ceiling slowly swung in the breeze airing out
thirteen years of damp and mould
I was the witness

I�d just bent over to scrawl a sign of my presence at this lily-infested ritual in an abandoned chapel when I noticed that the pen was leaving no blue traces on the paper the priest already blushing as I straightened up pen in surprised hand she naturally burst out laughing and then a rush to the sacristy and another pen this one just as hapless and following an urgent appeal from the lectern and the handbagged hands of women rustling finally pencil ok? she laughed even louder

mine was the first testimony in pencil
I guess it�s faded even more these many years down the line and you can�t have a valid marriage without a signed testimony her laughter still rings in my ears but she probably doesn�t know that
as when the photographer managed to freeze-frame my discoloured countenance against her radiant features bursting with sudden suppressed emotions engulfing her all of a sudden
they�ve been scattered all over the floor these many years down the line moment by faded moment laid to rest
like a trail of sequins falling one by one beneath the dress throughout the reception held on the small parapet because every other hall was booked out on the day

have you heard? he passed away this morning
Yes, I heard they�re burying him tomorrow
Don�t think I�ll go
Up to you really
you�re as free as a wedding dress purchased but never worn
Everybody thought well of Patri Feliċ he was humble as his sandal-clad feet

here lies the love that bound
33 couples all of whom
have untied the knot

There�s a little window in the front door you can spy through. You can see it all. That evening�s snatches of time, all laid to rest on the floor and she the guard, jealously keeping watch.
She was completely out of control that night. Every moment, even the ones she�d wanted to keep for herself, had been captured by the photographer. Today, these many years down the line, she�s the one who�s stopping the moments in their tracks.
Because she wants to.

I�d knock on the door, but my hands refuse to budge. I can hear her voice saying you be the witness, I like your signature.
They were clearly visible on the floor, laid to rest. You could see them all through the little window in the front door.
The wedding dress still dangles from a ceiling beam, and stares pointedly at me.
The rope looks thick and heavy. Plaited, it reminds me of the one my father uses to lower the pail into the garden well. The freeze-framed faces on the floor are looking my way, calling to me to enter, drop a signature.
I, the witness.
The gentle current breezing through the back is swinging her gently back and forth.
I can�t get inside, the door is locked.
I slip my hand into my pocket, without knowing why.

� Clare Azzopardi
Reproduced with permission