Sometimes I'm five and my mom pulls me away from the front of the showcase, a bitter tone, mummy would buy it for you if she had money. Two days have passed and we are at my wedding, she's combing my hair, a muffled tone, come by, my dear, to see us. Another three days and three years, in her head. Mummy will get better, a subdued tone. I want her to be aware, I said to the doctor back then, so she could stay with me a little longer. Give her the black pills on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. Now I'm afraid of the no-pills days. And then I'm ashamed. And it hurts, without her.
(Translated by Andra Daiana Păuna / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficţiuni Reale.