Warmschreiben 1


Nach Hause kommen.
Alles ablegen.
Alles ausziehen.
Schwimmen gehen.
Wolken von Constable, Turner, Hodler.
Näherkommender Regen.
Der ganz eigene Reiz von Regentropfen, wenn die Wasseroberfläche auf Augenhöhe ist.
Ein doppelter Regenbogen.
Und im Sommerregen nach Hause.

“Such dreams, such dreams cannot be true”*

A few days ago I dreamt that I was visiting my father in hospital, together with my mother. We didn’t enter by the main entrance, but by a door that wasn’t even an entrance and I was furious at her – why can my mother never do things “by the rule” (very funny, considering I follow so many of her rules without thinking). The hospital very much looked like a cloister and the nurses looked like nuns. There were little fluffy dogs and very small goats just about as high as the dogs, so maybe a foot high. Dogs and goats, those animals of death. I remember one of the goats rammed one of the doors open.

We did not ask where my father’s bed was, we just started going through the rooms and I had already gone past his bed when I heard my mother exclaim that he was there. And so I saw my father – my father who I have not seen for almost five years – lying on the bed, looking like he looked during his second chemotherapy, almost baldheaded, very weak. And I knelt down by the bed and half laid on it and then I forced myself awake because I knew, I knew even in this dream that he is dead and there is no hospice where I can visit him. And that was the worst thing about this dream.

*(trad., Fair Margaret and Sweet William, sung by June Tabor, Echo of Hooves)


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