Death knocks on the door. I open it and invite her in. We exchange glances of hope and fear. I offer her a seat. She runs her fingers over the white roses on the table and asks:
“Is there any coffee?”
“There isn’t. How about tea?”
She nods and pulls a chair to sit down. I heat up the water, cut two leaves of lemon balm, take a deep breath, and smell its perfume spreading around the kitchen. I pick up a ceramic cup and serve my guest.
She welcomes the tea in, sips it with eyes closed and, placing the cup back on the table, draws her hand towards me:
“Would you like to say something before leaving?”
“Could I say the prayer of Caritas?”
Some breeze ruffles the curtains of the room. The cup is at room temperature. I lay my head on the table like a child who sleeps over the books.