Ode to older me

Here I am, sad face, trying to smile, hair burned by the highland winds and the Voskopoja sun. A little older, true. You can already see the wrinkles on my forehead, the eyes are swollen and I am leaning on the old, wooden door that understands me because it has seen me become a woman. It was raining today and I was looking at a familiar view. My colors and the colors of the place for some reason met. Old wood, colored and wrinkled. Well lived wood.
The door or me?
I laugh. I understand her!

My eyes have changed. The deaths, the duels, the laughter, everything I have experienced these last two years have been written on my skin. This I tell myself, while many memories return and also internal screams, fights and cries show up. While moments of deep sweetness return too.
Old demons wake up. It couldn't be otherwise when you go back to childhood and, as Chavela Vargas says, “to the old places where one loved life” and where she also hated it many times.
I wonder if the wood and stones sometimes get mad at their families.
Stories in gray, of melancholic days.
Here we go.
Stones of memories building walls of the future.
And I am simply looking.