The scratch

I found a scratch on the door.

A small scratch, no longer than a finger.

I didn’t know when it appeared.

Maybe it was there since yesterday.

Maybe since a year ago.

Time doesn’t count with small things.

I stood and looked at it.

It wasn’t deep.

Even if I ran my finger over it, I felt nothing.

But I saw it.

And my seeing it made it more present than it was in itself.

I tried to remember if I was the one who scratched it.

Maybe while I was carrying the bag.

Maybe while I opened the door too fast.

Maybe I did nothing.

And things scratch themselves out of boredom.

I left it and went to the kitchen.

I came back a minute later and found myself looking at the door again.

The scratch hadn’t changed.

But my way of looking at it had.

The scratch became the only thing in the room.

I sat on the chair opposite the door.

I did nothing.

I just looked.

And looking too long at something trivial makes it heavy.

The scratch became like a question with no answer.

I thought of wiping it.

I brought a damp cloth.

I wiped the place of the scratch gently.

It didn’t go away.

The scratch isn’t dirt.

The scratch is a trace.

And a trace isn’t erased with water.

I set the cloth aside.

I sat down again.

Now the place of the scratch was a little wet.

And the dampness made it gleam under the light.

It became clearer than before.

Every attempt to hide a thing makes it more visible.

I heard the sound of the television from the neighboring apartment.

A repeated sound I couldn’t make out.

Noise doesn’t distract from the scratch.

It only makes it quieter and clearer.

As if the whole world had become its background.

I got up and opened the door.

I looked at the hallway.

The hallway was empty as usual.

No one passes through here at this time.

I closed the door slowly.

The scratch was on the inside.

So no one but me did it.

Or someone did it before me and I forgot.

Memory scratches too.

It leaves traces I don’t understand why they remain.

I brought a pencil.

I thought of coloring around the scratch to understand its limits.

But I didn’t.

If I colored around it, it would become a frame.

And a frame gives a thing a value it didn’t have.

And the scratch deserves no frame.

Nor does it deserve to be left like this.

I put the pencil down.

I went back to looking.

Time passed, I don’t know how much.

I didn’t feel boredom or tiredness.

The feeling disappeared.

Only the scratch remained, and I remained.

Two things looking at each other without purpose.

I thought that everything in the house was old.

The paint was cracked.

The handle moved slightly when touched.

And the floor made a sound when I walked on it.

The scratch was part of all that.

A small part that changes nothing.

But it reminded me that everything changes slowly enough that you don’t notice.

I got up and opened the window.

Cold air came in.

It moved the curtain a little.

The curtain was clean.

There were no scratches in it.

I envied it for that.

I closed the window.

The scratch was still there.

I said to myself: if the scratch were on the hand, time would heal it.

If it were on a dress, we would throw it away.

But it’s on the door.

And doors aren’t thrown away.

And doors don’t heal.

I sat again.

The scratch didn’t speak.

And I didn’t ask.

It was enough that it existed.

It was enough that I saw it.

At night I turned off the light.

The scratch remained a little darker than the color of the door.

In the darkness it gained a small shadow.

The shadow made it move when the air passed.

And it seemed to me that it was growing.

I slept late.

And when I woke up in the morning, I went to the door first.

The scratch was as it was.

It hadn’t grown.

It hadn’t shrunk.

It hadn’t disappeared.

I breathed with a relief I didn’t know the reason for.

Then I went out to work.

On the way I forgot about the scratch.

But when I came back in the evening, I went to it before I took off my shoes.

It became a habit.

A habit with no use.

Like looking at the clock when you’re not waiting for anyone.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll paint over it.

And maybe not.

Maybe another scratch will appear somewhere else.

And maybe I won’t notice it.

Things accumulate like this.

A scratch over a scratch.

Until the whole door becomes a trace.

And until I become a trace on the door.

The scratch is small.

And I am small before it.

And that’s really all there is to it.