His
wife sucked in things. She had a vacuum inside her. Or a magnet. A
black hole perhaps, though he discarded the latter two options due to
his keen observations. A magnet would only attract objects containing
iron and if it was a black hole the solar system would be gone as
well. And it wasn’t. He’d notice that, he thought. So it must be
a vacuum, he concluded and he thought he was clever.
up and
down mostly down spring rain
But she
sucked in things. His favourite pipe would rush off the table and
into her body just like his maps of the former world orders, those
pre 1945, the porcelain figurines he inherited from his grandparents
(on his mother’s side), his scout’s knife (the one he nicked from
his mate because he had two and made to look more used than it was by
rubbing brown food colouring into the wooden handle), half the chess
pieces (hand carved horn) and his best trousers, those 3 sizes too
large and with holes, splotches and stains with stories to tell.
Things he loved and felt comfortable with. To be fair, she also
sucked up stuff of her own … and the daughter’s hamster.
standing
still the birch prepares for spring
… and
she didn’t seem to notice or even mind. When his Miles Davis Box
Set containing 20 CDs went into her through her left armpit she just
released a small burp and scratched it (the armpit not the Box Set)
and kept on adding stitches to her Saint Francis Preaches to the
Birds embroidery large enough to cover the front of the house and
asked if there was any coffee left. Where it all went was – and
still is – a mystery. She didn’t get bigger nor did she rattle
when she walked but once a year, usually on Bright Sunday (and that
always falls on a different date, as you might know, the maths behind
fixing the day for our Saviour’s Resurrection being so complex even
the Holy Ghost would scratch its head (immaterial or not)) everything
she had absorbed during the year would come flying out of her again
ending up in the exact spot from whence they were sucked. That’s
why he put up with it.
60th
spring
will my
allergy go
before
I do?
“What’s
that, dear?” she said.
“That’s
why I put up with, I said”.
“Put
up with what, dear?”
“Ah,
nothing, love. Should I make some more coffee?”
“You
do that, dear”.
...
Hans kone sugede
ting op. Hun havde et vakuum indeni. Eller en magnet. Eller et sort
hul måske, selvom han forkastede de to sidste muligheder qua sine
skarpsindige observationer. En magnet ville kun tiltrække ting, der
havde jern i sig, og hvis det var et sort hul, ville solsystemet være
forsvundet. Og det var det ikke. Dét ville han have lagt mærke
til, tænkte han. Så det må være et vakuum, sagde han til sig
selv, og syntes han var klog.
op og ned mest ned
forårsregn
Men hun sugede ting
til sig. Han yndlingspibe ville rutsje af bordet og ind i hendes krop
ligesom hans kort over fortidige verdensordener, dem fra før 1945,
porcelænsfigurerne som han havde arvet fra sine morforældre, hans
spejderkniv (dén han havde stjålet fra sin kammerat, der havde to,
og som han havde ældet ved at gnide sovsekulør ind i træskæftet),
halvdelen af skakbrikkerne (håndskåret horn) og hans bedste bukser,
dem var var 3 numre for store og med huller og pletter og plamager,
der var fulde af historier. Ting han elskede og følte sig godt
tilpas i og med. Når ret skal være ret, sugede hun også sine egne
ting op … og datterens hamster.
stående stille
forbereder birken sig på forår
… og hun syntes
ikke at lægge mærke til det eller have noget imod det. Da hans
Miles Davis Boks Sæt med 20 CD’er gled ind i hendes venstre
venstre armhule, bøvsede hun kun en smule og kløede den (armhulen
ikke boksen) og fortsatte med at brodere på det store Sankt Frans
Prædiker for Fuglene korsstingsbroderi, der var stort nok til at
dække husets facade og spurgte, om der var noget kaffe tilbage. Hvor
det alt sammen blev af var – og er stadig – et mysterium. Hun
blev ikke større og raslede heller ikke, når hun gik, men én gang
om året, sædvanligvis Påske Søndag (og den falder sjældent på
den samme dato, som De véd; matematikken der ligger til grund for at
fastsætte dagen, hvor vor Frelser Genopstod er så kompliceret, at
selv Helligånden klør sig i nakken (immateriel eller ej)), hvor alt
hun havde opsuget i løbet af året ville komme flyvende ud af hende
igen og lande præcis der, hvorfra de var blevet suget væk – eller
op eller hvordan, det nu var. Det var derfor, han fandt sig i det.
60nde forår
vil min allergi dø
før mig?
”Hvad sagde du,
min ven?”
”Jeg sagde, det er
derfor jeg finder mig i det”.
”Finder dig i
hvad, skat?”
”Ingenting, min
kære. Sku’ jeg lave noget mere kaffe?”
”Gør
du bare det, skat”.
