Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Life as we will never again know it

I am now thinking about the time we first went to Amsterdam, I think it was a warm January, we were jumping on the bed to Madonna-songs in the sauna-hot Apple Inn: he told me a lot of times afterwards, that that time burned into his retina, so many times actually, that the expression got-burnt-into-my-retina became a part of my everyday vocabulary. And now I am thinking about the time when he fell asleep in my lap on the plane to Amsterdam and I realised that one of the stewardesses was my classmate back in high school. I saw mountains from the top for the first time with her. And now I'm thinking about the time we were sitting by the shore, watching those huge ships turn west. We were sitting in a bar on a Budapest street, and he said he was surprised he had found a friend at this age. And now I'm thinking about the time he fell asleep holding my hand. I can't bare to think about whether he was told what was happening to him or not, because I'm sure he knew. I look back and I now understand every single bad decision he made. And now I'm thinking about the time he first came down to the beach and we saw the Danube sparkle, and he screamed out, look, there's a small lake! How cute! And now I remember the nights we worked together, the pink corner, a lot of jokes that only we understood. Now I'm thinking about the first time we went to Brussels. That's when he decided to move there. Paris, windstorm. Amsterdam, club sandwich by the window looking out onto Ej. Brussels, Plattesteen, night sandwiches, bells ringing, chilling, boring-town tempo. At our place, between two chemos, he is planning our trip to the village, so we can rest after this ordeal. Cows, silence with his daddy, chatting to his grandmother. Now I'm thinking about the first time I went camping. I put the tent together in the evening, we ate, we washed ourselves and I waited for the calls, because at night, my sister always called me, and he always called me. That night neither of them called, I stayed up late, cried a little, then fell asleep, and realised the next morning that my phone was out of battery. When I recharged it, I called him and he helped me get home, he knew the way so well. I just finished browsing through his laptop, because I wanted to reach out to him, he can't just leave me here: when I saw his photos from the mountain, that was the worst kind of pain. But it felt good at the same time. Now I'm thinking about the fact that when Constance was hyperactive, he calmed her down by raising her above his head. It worked every time. And now I remember the last time he came home, the walk from the taxi to his bed wore him out so much, that all he could do was collapse and after we put everything away and organised the room, the dog climbed up onto the sofa and watched him from there, longing for a pat, and he actually forced himself to raise his hand so he could caress her.
People from old stories start appearing. Weird, alien manly voices over the phone, shaky, crying voices. Really? Really. Could you call me when ...? Yes. Thank you. It seems so easy to be cool calm collected, I'm standing in front of the pastas in the fucking supermarket with blank eyes and I tell a stranger-half stranger over the phone that yes, he is dead. I wait a little, I say I'm sorry. She asks me, can I tell her how it happened. I tell her. I promise to let her know about the funeral. If I recignise her from his stories, I will call her. She collects herself, says goodbye and hangs up. I go on, I buy a little milk, I pay. I want to kick his bed until I can no longer stand. I try to write e-mails or texts to his friends, to let them know in a discrete way. I throw out the tea he asked for when he was in the hospital. Everywhere and nowhere. It hasn't even been two days. And I knew very well that it was going to hurt this much. When my sister hugs me, I cry a little, almost in a calm way. I swallow my tears until my nose starts bleeding.
The only person I really loved with all his annoying bad habits, is dead. And I feel fucking sorry for myself because he's not with me. Anguish, that I don't want to understand. I knew you, I saw you, I loved you.

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