Perseide

I wish I could buy myself new shoes every month.
I wish I could buy myself a painting every now and then.
I wish I could go to the Opera every week.
I wish I could pluck my eyebrows whenever it's needed.
I wish I could go for a walk, alone, sometimes. And with my family more often.
I wish I could hold the time, sometimes. And to wind it faster, other times.
I wish I could buy an insurance for my children to be lucky.
I wish people were more naive, and have less self pity. Me included.
I wish I could cure the fears. At least to find some palliative treatment for fear.
But, anyway, during the summer I wish it was winter and the other way around.



I'm sure there's some story saying the same thing with less words.

Facts

Lest I forget.

My grandmother was born in January 1913. In the summer of 1917, when the Germans invaded our country, she was old enough to remember. She was telling us how her oldest brother, who was about 18, took the horses in the woods, to hide them from the invaders, and how they loaded a full carriage with their most precious and most necessary belongings and left for the city, for there was nothing left for them in their village. Being the youngest, she was on top of the pile of packages, and was always ending her story with the image of smoke coming from the woods, and her question, always the same: "Do you think the horses survived?"


In 1942, she was a teacher in another village. The children were 3 and 1. Her husband was on the front, somewhere in Russia. A mate of him, named Fish, on leave, passed with a note from my grandfather: "Send me with mate fish socks and shirts". She did send socks, shirts, and after a frantic search at all the people in the village she found some smoked fish and sent it too. My grandfather laughed and laughed, the fish, all rotten, arrived wiith mate Fish . But mate Fish was collected in a blanket from the front, anmd never made it home.

My other grandfather was a carpenter. Widower, with three small children, he was taken in the army in 1942 and become a prisoner, and was forgotten in a camp in Siberia until he was diagnosed with a tumour in 1956. He came home to find his only son adopted by someone, his teenage girls strangers. He did have enough time left to marry again and have a new son and daughter. He died soon after the daughter's birth. The new son died at 33, forgotten by the doctors on a corridor. The daughter died last December, aged 55, from a tumour.

There are other stories, too.

I was there when you were born

The day of her birth, it was snowing with small and rare flakes. Her father drove me to the hospital and left me there and he carried on for the school pick up. I slowly crossed the street, worrying that I'll dampen my stuff in the carry-on. It was a gray and melancholic midday.

Her name means God had mercy or God's gift, Yahveh hannah. She'll be four soon. She's spoilt. She's bright. She's strawberry blond as opposed to her dark hair dark eyes mother. She's lithe. She can naturally sing and dance, as opposed to her mother. At bedtime she prefers quizzes over stories. She's fluent in two languages and speaks fairly well German and English. She can write and read some. She has a great sense of colour. She knows how to push people's buttons. She's sensitive and witty. She has an amazing sense of conversation. She's so much a woman it takes my breath away. She wakes up with a wonderful smile, like a creature of the woods and the fresh lakes in the mountains. Sometimes, I honestly expect her to turn up with green leaves in her hair, as if she's come from some fairies. She's ticklish. She's like a small tabby, always ready to be given a cuddle. She likes me to lift her on the kitchen counter and wants to help. And then she asks for a reward and a surprise. She's leading her brothers by their noses. And her father. And her mother. She can measure precisely everyone's inner force and adjusts her behaviour accordingly. Sometimes she's the small creature of the woods and sometimes she's the epitome of sophistication and civilisation. I still perceive har as the ultimate undeserved gift: the gift of life. Das Ewig Weibliche.

As of today, everyday

Sometimes I'm so happy that my heart is bursting. Other times I'm so depressed that I feel like I'm living in a sea of cold, old suet. And sometimes I'm at peace with my life.

I have been thinking a lot about feelings and responsability. As in, if one loves someone, is this ensuing any responsibilities? And I'm not talking about children, of course. But, actually, what does a marriage means. No, not about the fact that the sparkles have a very short shelf life.

What does "I love you" has in its wake? Why should it have anything? What does the "I do" stand for? What do I expect from myself in this cat cradle? And from the other one who's implicated?

The only thing that's clear, at the moment, for me, is that I'm grateful we had children so unconsciously fast, and a lot of them for that matter. What they are giving every day, what they are teaching me every day is so heavy in substance that it makes me reflect on a lot of things from a new perspective.

I wish I was less prudish, to be able to crack the door a little larger on things. Nothing happened, in fact, and in no way do I try to change the coordinates of my life. It's just… well, maybe I become older and somehow accept more the people as they are.

Redivivus!

Someone once said that the only person in the world that you can count on is you and only you.
I want to add that lonelier than this statement is the realisation that you are the only one there for your child/ren. If possible, with the eventual partner to face against. And that there's no acknowledgement whatsoever. Whatever.

november, the innocent one

Her birthday was at a time I couldn't think of it.
Gray's birthday-idem.
Ruby's half-birthday-ditto.

I miss Niobe!


http://deadbabyjokes.blogspot.com/

I do understand and appreciate everything about her quitting, but I feel like whining at the moment.

When I was five or something, at the seaside, he took me on his back and swam. I try to remember the way his shoulders felt in my arms.

At my wedding party, he took me to dance and told me: "Fly, my little girl, spread your wings and fly!"; I was thinking that he's cheesy, like he likes to be with me, and maybe just a tiny intoxicated.


When I had the little one he told me: "I wanted you so, so much to have a daughter, I'm blissfully happy now!".


When my brother and I were in school, like 7-8-10 years old, every afternoon, before Mum came home, we were on him, asking everything about anything; he would answer any question which was asked in English.


I was like 13 or 14, in the evening, in the slow time after dinner but before bed, combing my hair in my room. He passed by, and said that I was beautiful.


He never, ever slapped me, in any way, he was never mad at me. He has never let me down. He has always let me know he loves me and my brats. He never judged me. Every choice I made in my life was for him a reason to be proud of me. He told me openly how proud he was of my children.


I realize he was very handsome, but it was his duty, wasn't it, to be perfect.


On the morning of a beautiful September Sunday, three weeks ago, Mum found him by the bed, facing sunrise. I hope he saw that last sweet sunrise.


He was the first man I loved, and the longest love story in my life.
I understand how genuine is the Jewish tradition to ripe the clothes at a death.


I lost my father.


And there's no comfort.