Alexa Daskalakis
Notes on what it means to be human—
written from the edge of time, memory and silence.
Košice
A buzzing light. An unfinished song. A girl who left quietly.
Košice, Slovakia —
The hallway light buzzed but we didn’t change it. It was cheaper to ignore. I kept my coat on until bed and folded it under my legs for warmth. We only used the heater when someone visited. My uncle came once and said the air felt expensive. He didn’t take off his boots.
The girl downstairs played violin, always the same part, never the full song. I asked her why and she said, “That’s the only part that sounds like me.” I believed her.
On Saturdays we cleaned. Not because we were dirty, but because it made the day pass faster. I used a toothbrush on the corners of the tile and no one told me to stop. The windows froze from the inside. If I wanted to see out, I had to breathe on the glass. That’s how I learned the shape of my lungs.
When I moved out, I left the light buzzing. I couldn’t bear the sound of silence starting over.