Vaccum / Vakuum

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”.