Micro

De: M. Cristina Marras
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  • Resumen

  • About one minute. That's all it takes to tell a story.
    www.cristinamarras.com
    Copyright M. Cristina Marras
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Episodios
  • 15. Kennedy

    15. Kennedy
    Jun 3 2022
    Sometimes what we remember from our childhood is confused with the stories other people tell us. A micro narration in a minute or so.

    TRANSCRIPT
    I remember exactly the day Kennedy was shot. My mother was wearing a black twin-set of jumpers, it was probably spring, or autumn, and we were watching television, and my mother was crying.

    I wasn’t even born the day that Kennedy was shot, but this memory is so vivid in my mind, that I really believe it to be true.

    Now I know, it wasn’t Kennedy my mother was crying for, it was my uncle Franco, her younger brother who migrated at a young age into to the mainland, killed in an industrial accident, crushed to death by a piece of machinery.

    The two identities, that of Kennedy and of my uncle, they remain forever connected in my memory, and I still can’t think of one, without having to see the other with the eyes of my mind.
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    1 m
  • 14. Airport

    14. Airport
    May 27 2022
    You loved each other for a month, then he had to fly back to Melbourne. In days when you could only write letters and, very very rarely, place extra-continental phone calls, finally seeing each other was scary. A micro narration in a minute or so.

    TRANSCRIPT
    The flight to Melbourne has been very long. She knew it in advance, but still, she feels exhausted and overwhelmed with fears, sensations and curiosity. It has been three months since she last saw him. It’s early nineties, there is no internet yet and she is not so sure any more about that wild passion, frantic letter-writing and desperate long-distance calls. She left Berlin and winter behind. When the customer gives her the passport back, she feels a warm river running along the legs. Blood in the new continent. The immigration formalities are dealt with - much too fast, she doesn’t even know whether she’ll recognise his face. That’s why she ignores her luggage, once more when it approaches on the carousel.
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    1 m
  • 13. Hands

    13. Hands
    May 20 2022
    When she travels alone on a tram, sometimes she is taken by a sudden notion.
    A micro narration in a minute or so.

    TRANSCRIPT
    I envy all those women sitting together on trams, mothers and daughters, pushing prams and carrying bags, laughing and talking secrets. We never shared secrets, my mother and I, but I am living abroad and I miss her nevertheless. I see her in her best dress, walking beside me, the handbag crossed over her chest, silver hair and wrinkles. I think my mother is proud of me, somehow, but she’s never told me - feelings are not a merchandise easy to exchange in my family. She didn’t go to school, but I remember her sitting with me at the kitchen table, asking a student who lived next door to teach her how to solve equations, to be able to help us with the homework. She is always hiding her hands, ashamed of them, deformed by arthritis.
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    1 m
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