I went to sleep alone in a hotel for a night. During the day I visited two museums by myself. There is nothing new about such a sea of time stretching out in front of me, I have sought silence before, but still, as always, it turned out to be too long ago that I had separated from my life.
I wanted to feel carefree. And free. But I held the railing of the Rijks stairs, as if I had to learn to walk again. Once in the café I had gotten used to myself a bit more. I ordered a coffee and a slice of banana bread. I took a bite and suddenly remembered that I don’t like banana bread at all. After another half hour of performative reading in my book, I went to the Stedelijk. There I looked at photos of Erwin Olaf for a long time. I took pictures of the photos and immediately considered calling home, but I shouldn’t. I had just left.
It is easier to enter the territory of grief with someone who is there often
Outside I drank coffee again. Maybe text them to see if they got home from school okay. No. Stop it, nothing can happen to them. They also exist without me. I’m a bit past this, I said, perhaps accidentally out loud.
In the evening I had dinner with my uncle and a friend. The uncle lost his son, my nephew. I was eight and I was there. Not him. The nephew drowned in the pond near our house. My uncle and I are not related by blood, but we visit each other regularly. Then we don’t talk about it, and eventually we do. Sometimes very long, sometimes until very late. Then suddenly I’m small again and so is he a little bit. Two children, looking for an answer that will never come. This evening we also talked about great sadness, but not too much. Not too larmoyant. The friend lost his sister, it is easier to enter the territory of grief with someone who is there often, but we decided to walk around it carefully together.
My uncle pretended to study the menu and then thoughtfully asked for a stern wine, the waiter said he didn’t think that was the best term for what my uncle probably meant. ‘We do!’ we shouted in unison and then giggled. A temporary pact, an evening that narrowed down to just the people at the table. Later it became even more severe wine. Should I still call home to ask if we slept well? No. I didn’t have to. I had to be carefree. Carefree and free.
Carefree and free I went to another pub, carefree and free I stroked a stranger’s cheek. Then I realized that I had not overcome anything at all. I was just drunk and would return tomorrow anything but reborn.
The next morning, before I had to go home, shivering from the hangover, probably to punish myself, I went to the funeral drama Hamnet. Do I even have to do this now?’ I texted yesterday’s friend. “Yes, great crying,” he texted back.
The little boy in the film died, I cried myself dry and started on the way home, devastated.
“Are they still alive?” I texted along the way. “They’re still alive,” I got back. I exhaled slowly.
Carefree and free, for a while.
