After we pushed the Volvo’s mileometer beyond 100.000, it was onward towards the moon, and a telescope mom’s last present for dad. He never got himself to put it out the box; it’s just been sitting there collecting dust, until a summer weekend when I took it on my own hands and assembled it. It’s the blackest black you’ll ever see, and then the moon gleaming in. The Sea of Tranquility in between the storms raging my head, before putting it back in its own coffin. Still, with my bare eyes, I see the oceans. A fleet of Volvos journey, and one day, dad’s.
Sitting shotgun, I was talking about my first girl scout camp out.
One of the many firsts you’d miss.
When I asked dad about sleeping bags, he responded ‘I don’t know… you’d have to ask your mother.’
It was quiet.
At that moment, although I have your lips, father and daughter shocked expressions were Identical. I didn’t talk the rest of the way home. I hate the holidays.
Fast forward six years;
I want to sleep all day.
I don’t want to deal with phone calls from friends moms saying they are here for me, I am not a pity case.
Go to brunch and fawn over your flowers that smell more of funeral home then love.
People say I look like you still. Same smile, same hair.
I don’t remember it before chemo so i’m not so sure.
Next July you’ll be out of my life longer then in, and even though I know it ruined you I still bring that cigarette to my lips, because of the constant reminder they look so much like yours”
July came quick mom.
I’m all, no goals while I’m peeing!
Even more so than the Moon and the million eyeballs constantly drawn to it, soccer matches are our collective campfire. Almost everyone that has been – and will be – in my life collecting around their televisions, and in that moment, the same picture swimming in front of all our eyes.
That, however, is not entirely accurate. For the past couple years, while all around me television sets have widened, flattened, and robbed a generation off fat cardboard box forts, my old tube with its grainy ghostly pictures, bunny ears sticking out almost, has been living a second in the future.
The second or two it takes for the digital signal to bounce off satellites, get decoded and beam in; just long enough for a few fellow analogue apartments to louden up and a car to honk, before getting drowned out by all the other flats.
But for that second, it’s like knowing the future: hit or miss.
Four years ago, while Germany was playing England in the World Cup, I kept on sneaking out on my balcony and it looked like Aliens would’ve snatched everyone off the face of the Earth: no people and cars for miles – even the birds were chirping softer. And then, just when I headed back inside, an old lady, all carefree and with a flower pot in her handlebar basket, pedaled by on her bicycle. We won that game 4:1, and while I remember each goal, it’s her who stuck with me.
Du bist mein Edelstoff.
No, and no boyfriend either. At this point, all I want is a cat. I’m such a sucker for the warm spots people and small animals leave in your bed; rolling over and soaking it all up. I got the hardest time to feel my own warmth, and my laptop my electric cat. Sometimes when I park my ass in one spot for a good long while I get as much as a hint, but most times I feel like a ghost.
Green grass tickling my neck, dusk melting into an endless dawn; and still, all I can think is that, like a fading flower, the days are already getting shorter. Bite after bite, eaten away by the winter to come. I wish Midsummer were sometime in August. I’m not ready, not yet. I haven’t even been kissed this summer.