At the rift of memories
At the rift of memories
First confrontation with the illness – the game ends
With year, memories become clumsy, but what stays in
the physical feeling of the taste of Milka chocolate, quenching of thirst with
Ora and playing “mini basketball”. Lowered baskets, children laughing, torn
sneakers, monumental pride of striking three points, worshiping Aco – Trica and
a female coach, for which we gladly rubbed our knees until they bled.
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| Šola košarke - Slivnica |
With the ball I enter the darkness … the game ends.
Torn and stitched scalp, mesh, this time on the skull,
RTG does now show injuries between eyes. A rough apology of the organizer. Life
makes peace with the tricolor, the love for the ball is deeper.
Second confrontation with the illness – Junior prom
Rooms decorated in colours, parents chatting loudly,
in the background soft voice of the piano, benevolent expressions on the faces
of teachers, the either graders prepare to have the junior prom.
I am holding in my hands a file with speeches, verses,
acknowledgements. The offspring standing on the stage, I notice worry in the
eyes of the teachers, questions on the faces of the parents. Two chairs remain
untaken. The beginning drifts away. Ten, twenty minutes, half an hour … In the
corner of the eye a tear, shiver, accusatory look. I feel cold sweat in my
palms. Where is mom, where is dad? Where are my parents. A quarter to the full
hour, to busy with their lives and without any quilt, my parents arrive.
Silence pierces through the room. Junior prom begins. The hand twitches, the
papers scatter on the floor … we carry out the celebration, the curtain in me
drops.
Third confrontation with the illness – grandfather and
grandmother
I keep my fingers crossed. My sister is taking a
difficult exam at the University. Pathology. I am walking up and down our home
garden. A strange feeling. I hear no noise from the woodshed. “57” cigarettes
are not here, no sound of our three dogs. It is too quiet. I run towards the
house. Through the kitchen door I hear convulsive cry. The read headscarf slips
over the face of my grandmother. Hypocritical drops leave their mark. The
grandfather left on the shortest way. Everybody’s wings break.
My grandmother fights presence. She waits that one day
in the morning they will again have a shot-glass of schnapps with honey, a cup
of “Divka” and listen to the morning news. Her wings don’t glue and she cannot
accept her life anymore.
A sharp pain in the stomach. Hugs me and gives me a
kiss on the forehead. We need to see the doctor. I was not spoiled, it is only
her pain again unglued my wings.
Birthday. I did not celebrate it. It was a day of the
week. Evening. We are all silent. In the middle of the table a cake that father
brought from the hospital. I never liked cake, but this one was ordered by
grandmother in the hospital, as she could not bake anymore. I focused my green
eyes in the turquoise frosting. Father days: “This is grandmother’s last cake!”
She was dying of cancer. I wanted to buke. In my nostrils, the smell of autumn
and the hospital gown of my grandma.
I will never forget the trails I left in the
snow in the winter, when I visited her grave every day.
Fourth confrontation with the illness – hide-and-seek
with the future
No more fun, no more playful, a torn school bag in
army colours, a feeling of an unknown touch, the future becomes broken.
