Three bulges

A bulge might be something scary.
But the word "bulge" is very keen to me. It is a sharp, poetic word. Little bulges, albeit small, can be strong and irradiate energy and influence overwhelmingly. Particularly, I like the Spanish word "bultito". Carmen Laforet describes in Nada a few terrible scenes. I don't remember the plot of one of them, but I have the image, as she writes, of the little bulge of the grandma (la abuela, un bultito) standing up in the middle of a whirlpool of fighting and physical violence, asking "what's wrong?" She looked so small, so weak and, at the same time, endurable and unafraid, strong and wise.
That's how I remember it. The image made a deep impression.
I like little bulges of tenderness, black holes of resilience and resistance. Dear John Paul the Second was a little bulge, folded and hunched in three other tiny bulges (like Flannery O'Connor brief and forcefully describes one of her characters), but immensely strong and given-in. These little bulges bring out the best of you -the best of me-, tenderness and rage in one nutshell, jerk my tears and shape them in beauty and profound meaning.
Last week, while waiting the bus to go up to Muswell Hill, a little bulge hidden inside a long coat was coming down the empty road along with a big black and colorful lady. The little bulge came down the road swinging left to right, pulling her feet away from shuffling as much as she could. Her head was resting down into the neck, unable to sharp motions. From her short position, she looked up with a content smile and gave me something to read. Then there she went down the street, her purse, hung and forsaken on her arm, swinging in endless motion.
Life does not matter, no matter at all. These little bulges content everything you need.
God bless them!

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