The Last Winter

At seven forty-five in the morning on the 21st of April, as he had often done before, Dr. Benjamin Borg stopped to look at the beautiful painting that hung on the white wall opposite his desk. That painting reminded him of the beach and of certain emotions. He had lived for forty-nine years, in reality a short time in the vastness of eternity, as fleeting as the passage of a comet through the millionth part of the galaxy, not even enough time for a redwood tree to reach its fullest height, and as brief as the rotation of the sun around a minute sector of the Milky Way; and yet forty years was just as long as billions of human beings ever live. In such an insignificant span of time millions of humans, animals and insects would have been born, have reproduced, and have died. Everything is relative; time is an unnecessary and subjective medium. It serves neither to clarify nor to measure the effects of suffering or pleasure. A fraction of a second is incommensurable and infinite when a person is in pain – someone who understands and somehow wants to help suffering spirits must stop the earth from spinning to put an end to their temporary torture. Sick of suffering, incapable of understanding why the pain never abated, tired of a life of endless agony, heart broken, and plagued by a guilty conscience, Benjamin wanted never to have to think again. He wanted to get down on his knees and ask God to forgive him, but he wanted even more to ask forgiveness of the man who, because of what he had done, had to endure suffering even more intense. Overwhelmed by these reflections, Benjamin had decided to go somewhere far away from everyone and everything. Maybe the spring in South Hampton would give him back his strength, solace his soul and end the pain that tormented his body! On that mild Saturday in April the snow had melted and the white blanket had been reduced to mud and ice. After having turned the parks into vast, desolate wastelands, the icy north wind had gone. Life was being reborn and New Yorkers were leaving their homes to consecrate the sun and spring. Just before leaving to enjoy his deserved vacation, he remembered some papers with important data from the results of his research on the importance of chromosomes in the diagnosis and treatment of cancer. As that information was essential for the completion of his manuscript, he decided to stop in his office for a few minutes. As he entered the building he was still reflecting on recent events. He felt that this last winter would soon end. It was a regular, ordinary winter, no different from any other – but these last four months had left wounds that could never be healed. Even if the last winter had passed quickly, he would still never be the same again. He still remembered the hot summer sun and the cool winds of the peaceful autumn. He had ceased to think about winter, had nearly forgotten it, but it had left an irrevocable scar that would never entirely fade away, even if he was able to experience the joys of life again. That winter was ending and would never return, but it would always be with him, be with God and the universe itself. That winter lasted just four months, in reality just an instant, a miserable instant in the span of his existence, a brief flash in the darkness of his eternal insomnia. Maybe what happened during that last winter was only a fleeting dream, just another part of the comedy, the farce that was his life? Still it had had as profound an impact on his conscience as an illusion that is shattered by a faint breeze. Everything seemed so unreal, what had happened had endured less time than it took for his heart to beat, his shattered, devastated heart. He had endured so much pain and suffering that last winter, so many different agonies that each one seemed to overflow from inside him and dull his intellect like the molten rock that shoots out from inside the Earth to silence men and fill them with fear. And just as that lava petrifies the erupting volcano, his spirit had been frozen by a confusion of emotions. He took the elevator up. In his oblivion the only person he had seen was the porter, who greeted him amiably. He entered his office, stopped in front of his desk and admired the painting that had been with him all this time, for more than fifteen years. He had thought of taking it along with him as he began his new life, but he had desisted - he did not want to prolong the memory of his suffering. The painting was of a lovely woman running on the beach. Her long dress blew in the wind, as did her precious blond hair, and the waves broke gently at her ankles. That picture had been painted one hot summer when he had spent an incredible vacation with Vianka on the scorching beaches of Puerto Rico. Suddenly he heard a faint noise and saw a silhouette that he thought he recognized reflected in the glass over his diploma. His eyes were immediately drawn to the weapon in the person’s hand, but he didn’t turn his head. He held his breath and asked God to forgive him for his sins and begged the Creator to take care of his insane son. In that short prayer he thanked the man behind him for wanting to free him of his torment. He cursed his inability to explain why he suffered and was relieved to remember that his will was in order. He calmly closed his eyes, expecting at any moment to hear the well-aimed shot that would split his cranium. The beautiful woman in the painting smiled, the smell of her perfume permeated his thoughts, the ocean breeze lifted his spirit and the seagulls reminded him of an infinite number of verses and memories. He soared through time and space, thought of his parents and of his native city, and his entire life flashed before him.