The corpse before him is not his mother.
This is not her hair.
Not her bulging veins.
The age spots on her hands.
The sock with a loose stitch.
This room is not his.
Neither is the silence.
But the cigarette — that's his.
The smoke.
The smell.
The fingers holding it.
The lips exhaling.
The ash.
The butt.
The habit.
The habit of smoking.
Of sleeping.
Of eating.
Of making love.
Of living.
Here.
Without explanations.
Without excuses.
Without imposed meaning.
Without tomorrow.
Without a role.
The body knows.
And it doesn't lie.
The body is tired.
It sleeps.
Smokes.
Drinks coffee. With milk.
People watch. And click their tongues.
The body is in love.
It laughs.
Swims in the sea.
Makes love.
They ask, "Do you love me?"
"Will we get married?"
The body suffers. It's on the edge.
It tenses.
It strains.
It fights.
The sun is relentless.
It is everywhere.
It breaks him.
But none of that matters.
What the body goes through doesn't matter.
What matters is what it performs.
It is watched.
Judged.
Loss becomes an exam.
Love becomes a script.
Collapse is charged as murder.
The body is interrogated.
Others answer in its place.
"Buried his mother with the heart of a criminal,"
"mistress," "debauchery,"
"premeditated murder," "patricide."
The body shrinks.
It listens.
Says nothing.
Has no words.
It's no longer a body.
It's a narrative.
Orderly. Logical. Readable.
Sterile.
The narrative is not on trial for murder.
It's on trial for feelings.
Demanded.
And not performed.
The body is gone now.
Only the guillotine remains.