Living memories

The way to the little house is covered with weeds.
She remembers the stones under her bare feet, wet after a rainy day.
They pricked her skin and she had to return to the grass besides the way.
She sees the big tree in front of the house, an old one, with a wide
trunk and big branches. The leaves are light green and singing their song
in the wind. Her father built a swing for her, which still hangs there.
She smiles. The memories of her childhood are good ones. At this time
everything seemed to be alright and the cruel world outside the garden
and house couldn't harm her.

Her mother was outside on a day like this, sunny and with very little clouds
at the sky. She cared for her tomatoes and potatoes, salad and strawberries.
And for her little daughter, swinging back and forth, long brown hair,
laughing.

She can still see the little acre, now overgrown with green grass,
dandelions and thistles.

Near the tree stood a table with the best lemonade Janet could imagine.
It was some kind of cliché to remember all those details, while there were
so many days that differed from the one she has in mind.
She hears her parents still laughing, feels the wind of the past in her
long hair.
Her mother would've never appreciate that she'd cut it short a few years ago.
The house looks old, but at the same time exactly the way she remembers.
Like time hasn't gone by and it's only Janet who has changed.

She enters, and again feels the warmth and comfort she felt as a child.
Janet left muddy footprints on the corridor. Her mother later took her
bathing, reprimanding and cleaning her. She felt only a little bit guilty,
as she could see in her mother's eyes that she was amused.
After that they sat together in the living room, eating supper. She loved to
drink broth after a rainy day and the obligatory bath prepared by her mother.
She remembers the raindrops falling down on the ground and their melody on
the window panes.
Her gaze wanders over the flowers at the window sill. They are mostly pink,
pink little blossoms like the bows her mother used to put in her hair, as
she was her little girl.
The newspaper from the day before lies on the table, like it did every
day as far as she could remember.

Like it should.

Normality.


Besides the paper stands a blue coffee mug, still filled with now cold coffee.
On the couch lies the red blanket, she used to snuggle under and cushions at
the sides. Everything is neat and clean, arranged in a way only her mother
could understand.
She goes towards the shelf. Her fingertip glides over the books on it.
There are many of them, a whole collection of detective stories, thrillers and
books about gardening. She recognizes every title, still remembers the feeling
of the books in her hands. She goes in the kitchen, still-dirty dishes in the sink.
The sun plays with the shadows on the ground.
Little, colourful pictures in the window panes.

The room reminds her of the scent of coffee, toast and eggs with bacon. Her dad's
favourite breakfast. On Saturdays they had been sitting here, listening to the now quiet
radio. Her father spoke about yesterday's work and his plans for the day , her mother
and Janet always listening and nodding along. Janet with a very serious expression
on her face, like she could understand the sorrows and the thoughts of her parents.

So long ago.

The cupboard is white and battered, it is made of old wood and she stares at it.


"Janet?", the sound of her name makes her turn around.
Her mother stands in the kitchen door, frail and with greying hair.
She can't do everything in the house anymore and she knows it. She looks surprised to
find her daughter here after all this time. Janet can't tell if she's happy that
she's here or not. "I'm here to help", Janet says, like that would explain everything.
She's here to help, finally, after all these years. After the break up with her parents,
leaving her home and never looking back.
Her mother looks at her, very quiet, some kind of understanding in her eyes.
Sometimes you don't have to say everything out loud to let the other know what you are
feeling and thinking. Then she's gone, gone like her Dad. Both vanished yesterday and
she stands alone in the kitchen.

The house is empty, quiet and abandoned.
She touches the table and holds the blue coffee cup in her hands,
not remembering ever picking it up.

Like an anchor to hold her in reality.

Cold coffee from yesterday morning.

It seems an eternity away.