To the dead and me

Last night my mood dropped below hell and I fell asleep, tired from the walk with my mother, tired from the longing for true love.

As I did not know quite what to do this afternoon: couldn’t sleep cause of the warmth, I decided to go to the supermarket and get some tea and chocolate already for my return next week.
On my way there, I ”passed” the street leading to the cemetery. I stopped, listening to the invisible power drawing me to this place. Then I crossed the main road to turn into this street. And of course as unbelievable as I am, I met my grandmother on half the way: she was coming from the cemetery with a friend (who can still bear her repetitions). It wasn’t like I felt turning my back to her and running away but…well, very close to this. However, I faced her, hugged her and wondered immediately where her glasses are. She didn’t understand my question and the least she understood my answer on if I was going to visit my grandfather. Each time I felt a ridiculous repetition might freak me out I looked at her friend who was smiling.

It was not a relief when I could carry on walking.
The cemetery did not change.
The same old deads and dates.
My grandfather’s grave was there where I expected it
although my eyes did not spot it immediately.


above his name

Sitting on a bench, without glasses
cause they really are disturbing when crying,
I focused on this word.

I wondered why he didn’t shoot her first and then died.
His birthday appeared to be burning: 22.2.1935.

My mind wandered through his whole funeral again. I realized I could not cry freely back then, just as I could not do it today. Some parts of my emotional scars are buried with him and they can only heal if I dig him out again.

Only loneliness is true to you.

Now, it is raining…the first heavy rain in Germany after months of drought and suffocating air.
A fabulous moment for words, the dead, me

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