Produttore di sogni

Di Matilda Colarossi

Ogni cosa ha il suo tempo. Anche il respiro deve averlo. Lo controllava. Fissava la parete verde e lo controllava. Un sommozzatore in apnea. Senza mare. Nel verde della sala d’attesa sulla sedia ergonomica accanto ad altri che aspettavano e respiravano come avrebbe voluto fare lei. E i petti salivano e scendevano e i polmoni si riempivano e si svuotavano e lievi sospiri uscivano da bocche piene di speranze mentre lei, in apnea, aspettava che si aprissero le porte di vetro. E ora, quell’apnea  forzata, senza mare, nel verde  della sala d’attesa tra corpi che respiravano come avrebbe voluto fare lei, le bruciava i polmoni. E sentiva la pressione dietro gli occhi e sapeva che tra poco sarebbe tutto finito perché nessuno usciva da quella porta a vetri dove aveva visto sparire il figlio sfracellato in barella. L’uomo non usciva. L’uomo che le aveva sorriso e le aveva detto che sarebbe andato tutto bene non usciva. E lei restava in apnea nella sala verde sulla sedia ergonomica ad attendere l’uomo che l’aveva fatta sperare, l’uomo che le aveva fatto sperare. Il suo personale produttore di sogni.

Dream weaver

By Matilda Colarossi

There is a time for everything.  Even for breathing. She controlled hers. She stared at the green wall and controlled hers. A deep sea diver with no breathing apparatus.  And no sea.  In the green waiting room on the ergonomic chair near other people waiting and breathing like she wished she could breathe. And the chests rose and fell and the lungs filled and emptied and soft sighs escaped mouths full of hope while she, with no breathing apparatus, waited for the glass doors to open. And now, this forced apnea, with no sea, in the green waiting room among other bodies that breathed like she wished she could breathe, made her chest burn. And she could feel the pressure behind her eyes and knew that in a little while it would all be over because no-one was coming back through those glass doors where she had seen her broken son disappear on a stretcher. The man was not coming back. The man who had smiled at her and said that everything would be all right was not coming back. And she, with no breathing apparatus, remained sitting in the green waiting room on the ergonomic chair, waiting for the man whose words kept her hoping, the man whose words kept her hoping. Her very own dream weaver.

On translating yourself: the difficulty here was the word “apnea”. To be “in apnea” in Italian simply means diving without apparatus, while holding your breath.  And although the word apnea exists in English, it is used differently. So to maintain the meaning it had to be changed to “with no breathing apparatus” , which is slower, longer, harder to suit sentences I wanted to remain short. M.C.
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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

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