Sometimes I wonder if you look at your fingers, to that spot where the skin is lighter. That spot where you used to wear a ring.
Our ring.
Although I think calling it "our" would be lying. It wasn't ours, as my ring wasn't ours either. There has never been something that belonged to us. We do not own anything. We can't. We are not allowed. We are not people. We are not free. We do not count.
We bear a flag, an emblem. We bear our people's pride. We are burdened with the strenght of a thousand, of a million men and women. We smile, we fight, we stand, we obey.
We cry. But only when we're alone, because we can show no weakness. We can bare no feelings but pride and content. You cried a lot at some point, I know, even if you haven't say a word about it. As I cried, because of fear, because of pain, on those endless nights painted with blood and fire.
I like to believe that you have shed tears of joy too. The day we wore those rings. But I can't remember. My people were confused at that time, and so was I. Neither them nor I thought that things would be so easily fixed. But, oh, I was also so happy. And that happiness was only mine. Like you. You were mine. And I whispered it into your ear so many times that I lost the count. That ring fitted you so well… even when it was pulled out too soon.
I still keep mine, in a box. Some days I take it and look at it, bringing back those days of shyness and flirtation. Those days we stole, because they weren't ours. Maybe the war would have been less painful if we hadn't had them. But I don't care. As I don't care what the others might thought or think.
Because seeing you smile, beside me, the morning after those vows where spoken, was worth.
And that's what really matters.
The nights of blood and fire are meant to be the Blitz, and the "some point" Spain cried a lot is the Spanish Civil War.
