Kragen
Smash Ace
“Gray snow. Black flocks”
“What are you saying, grandfather?”I asked.
“Look.”
He pointed with his crooked finger, broken once, or twice, you can’t tell.
He was sitting in his chair, his rocking chair. From his father, who got it from his father, who made it out of wood, out of the forest nearby.
I looked out of the window. Large grey flocks were falling down, blown to the side of our little house by the wind. It shook the houses in our surrounding, part of a little village so small, it probably doesn’t even have a name. We never named it, and never will.
“Mom? Look at this. What is it?”
“It’s nothing, dear. It’s snow.”
I could tell from her worried look that it wasn’t snow. We never had snow. I don’t even know what it is. Dad says it’s very cool, and it will melt if we had it here. So it had all melted away before we came here.
“Come, dinner’s ready.”
“Coming.”
I helped my grandfather out of his rocking chair, and led him to his chair at the dinner-table.
It was square, small and had a weird pattern on it, with a lot of swirls that look like smoke.
I always travel the lines with my index finger, when my grandfather hasn’t finished eating and I can’t leave the table.
We ate in silence, having not much to say. The only one who spoke, was my grandfather, who told a lot of stories, between his slobbering of his porridge. Having lost many teeth, he can’t eat very well, but talking all the better.
He told how he had helped his father build the same house where we lived in now. How he had survived the fierce storm when he went fishing with his father, who didn’t came back from the sea.
And last he once again told how he got work at a cruise, and how he saw those weird people with sunglasses, who looked all white and didn’t talk to him. He told of the sailor who did talk to him, and how the sailor gave his harmonica to him.
He told a lot more, but I didn’t listen anymore. I was captured by those line on the dinner table, whirling in front of my eyes, and every time I saw them, I saw something new.
My father interrupted my grandfather’s speaking and my travelling.
“All right. Let’s clear the table.”
Soon I was outside. It had stopped “snowing”, as my mother called it, and the sky was cleer blue, slowly turning to orange, to where the sun set.
My grandfather sat next to me, on the little bench, painted very light blue, found on a regular day on the beach, our back garden. He took his harmonica and began to play.
Soft tremors rose up from the instrument en flew through the sky, where they, in the glowing of the arising moon, died away, but still rising on, in silence to the stars, and the wind played in harmony with them.
Every time the music was picking up, the wind was too, rustling the palmleaves on the beach, our back garden. When the music was lessened, the wind became a soft breeze, letting the marram grass swing, to and fro, waving at us.
“Shall we dance?”
My mother looked back, and saw her partner in life.
“With pleasure.”
And my parents danced on the music of my grandfather’s harmonica. With bare foot, on our back garden, the beach, they were moving on the wind, guided by the harmonica, in the glimmer of the setting sun, and the reflection of the sea.
My mind was just as blank as his, and the sea.
“Get up.”
My father was bending over me, repeating the words. I always sleep very heavily, so it took some time for me to wake up.
I was lying in my little bed, next to my grandfather’s, but it is empty. It wasn’t made up, which wasn’t normal, and I saw the face of panic in it.
“What is it?”
My mom and dad were running, to the door and back, to the window and back. They were definetly in panic.
“We need to leave the island.”
I looked around, feeling there was missing something, next to the furniture they already had carried out.
I looked outside. It was still snowing. Or it just started, I don’t know. Out of the snowfall I saw a figure, shuffling further, bended headfirst. Although I didn’t scream, nor shout, nor anything, he turned around. And although I only saw his contour, I knew it was him.
He stood up firm and pointed once more.
I looked to my right, seeing two objects on a chair, his. A little amazed, I was, because all other furniture had gone through the window and the door.
I recognized his pipe, not used since my grandmother died. Giving it to my father, I was in my mind.
‘May, one time, you be old enough to smoke.’
He probably won’t. His eyes told a story, I didn’t respond.
It was never my grandfathers’ intention to stay here, with us, but to be in his wife’s presence.
The second object was a harmonica.
In my hand it lay, motionless, but it wasn’t made to be motionless. I played.
All my thoughts, ideas, images of my grandfather surrounded me and became timbres. Little sounds went under my feet, and I rose. I rose to the sky, where the tremors which my grandfather had played, were no longer here, but replaced by mine.
Still present in my mind, he was gone from my senses.
When I looked up again, I was facing the girl that lives in the house, which is just as little as ours, next to us. We always played together, when we were younger, forming little hills on the beach with a half of a coconut shell, forming the hill country of England, but I’ve never been there. The name England came from a book on the shelves, which was shaking like the rest of our house.
“Are you coming? My dad asked me if you would travel with us to the island up close.”
My mother gave me a kiss on the cheek. A little necklace dangled on her neck. I remember it was once on the neck fron my grandmother too.
“You may go, honey.”
We walked outside, on the beach of white sand, which was now gray. It had stopped snowing, but not in my mind. The silence before the storm.
In my mind it snowed, where in the background little images, featuring my grandfather, were played, without a sound.
‘Fin’, it said, in curly letters.
“You play really well. Do you want to play again, once where on the sea?”
She wore a light summer frock, which danced in the cool summer breeze, no longer carrying his notes, but mine.
“Yeah, sure.”
She returned my smile, took my hand and we ran on the beach laughing.
And the wind was filled with our laughter.
“What are you saying, grandfather?”I asked.
“Look.”
He pointed with his crooked finger, broken once, or twice, you can’t tell.
He was sitting in his chair, his rocking chair. From his father, who got it from his father, who made it out of wood, out of the forest nearby.
I looked out of the window. Large grey flocks were falling down, blown to the side of our little house by the wind. It shook the houses in our surrounding, part of a little village so small, it probably doesn’t even have a name. We never named it, and never will.
“Mom? Look at this. What is it?”
“It’s nothing, dear. It’s snow.”
I could tell from her worried look that it wasn’t snow. We never had snow. I don’t even know what it is. Dad says it’s very cool, and it will melt if we had it here. So it had all melted away before we came here.
“Come, dinner’s ready.”
“Coming.”
I helped my grandfather out of his rocking chair, and led him to his chair at the dinner-table.
It was square, small and had a weird pattern on it, with a lot of swirls that look like smoke.
I always travel the lines with my index finger, when my grandfather hasn’t finished eating and I can’t leave the table.
We ate in silence, having not much to say. The only one who spoke, was my grandfather, who told a lot of stories, between his slobbering of his porridge. Having lost many teeth, he can’t eat very well, but talking all the better.
He told how he had helped his father build the same house where we lived in now. How he had survived the fierce storm when he went fishing with his father, who didn’t came back from the sea.
And last he once again told how he got work at a cruise, and how he saw those weird people with sunglasses, who looked all white and didn’t talk to him. He told of the sailor who did talk to him, and how the sailor gave his harmonica to him.
He told a lot more, but I didn’t listen anymore. I was captured by those line on the dinner table, whirling in front of my eyes, and every time I saw them, I saw something new.
My father interrupted my grandfather’s speaking and my travelling.
“All right. Let’s clear the table.”
Soon I was outside. It had stopped “snowing”, as my mother called it, and the sky was cleer blue, slowly turning to orange, to where the sun set.
My grandfather sat next to me, on the little bench, painted very light blue, found on a regular day on the beach, our back garden. He took his harmonica and began to play.
Soft tremors rose up from the instrument en flew through the sky, where they, in the glowing of the arising moon, died away, but still rising on, in silence to the stars, and the wind played in harmony with them.
Every time the music was picking up, the wind was too, rustling the palmleaves on the beach, our back garden. When the music was lessened, the wind became a soft breeze, letting the marram grass swing, to and fro, waving at us.
“Shall we dance?”
My mother looked back, and saw her partner in life.
“With pleasure.”
And my parents danced on the music of my grandfather’s harmonica. With bare foot, on our back garden, the beach, they were moving on the wind, guided by the harmonica, in the glimmer of the setting sun, and the reflection of the sea.
My mind was just as blank as his, and the sea.
***
“Get up.”
My father was bending over me, repeating the words. I always sleep very heavily, so it took some time for me to wake up.
I was lying in my little bed, next to my grandfather’s, but it is empty. It wasn’t made up, which wasn’t normal, and I saw the face of panic in it.
“What is it?”
My mom and dad were running, to the door and back, to the window and back. They were definetly in panic.
“We need to leave the island.”
I looked around, feeling there was missing something, next to the furniture they already had carried out.
I looked outside. It was still snowing. Or it just started, I don’t know. Out of the snowfall I saw a figure, shuffling further, bended headfirst. Although I didn’t scream, nor shout, nor anything, he turned around. And although I only saw his contour, I knew it was him.
He stood up firm and pointed once more.
I looked to my right, seeing two objects on a chair, his. A little amazed, I was, because all other furniture had gone through the window and the door.
I recognized his pipe, not used since my grandmother died. Giving it to my father, I was in my mind.
‘May, one time, you be old enough to smoke.’
He probably won’t. His eyes told a story, I didn’t respond.
It was never my grandfathers’ intention to stay here, with us, but to be in his wife’s presence.
The second object was a harmonica.
In my hand it lay, motionless, but it wasn’t made to be motionless. I played.
All my thoughts, ideas, images of my grandfather surrounded me and became timbres. Little sounds went under my feet, and I rose. I rose to the sky, where the tremors which my grandfather had played, were no longer here, but replaced by mine.
Still present in my mind, he was gone from my senses.
When I looked up again, I was facing the girl that lives in the house, which is just as little as ours, next to us. We always played together, when we were younger, forming little hills on the beach with a half of a coconut shell, forming the hill country of England, but I’ve never been there. The name England came from a book on the shelves, which was shaking like the rest of our house.
“Are you coming? My dad asked me if you would travel with us to the island up close.”
My mother gave me a kiss on the cheek. A little necklace dangled on her neck. I remember it was once on the neck fron my grandmother too.
“You may go, honey.”
We walked outside, on the beach of white sand, which was now gray. It had stopped snowing, but not in my mind. The silence before the storm.
In my mind it snowed, where in the background little images, featuring my grandfather, were played, without a sound.
‘Fin’, it said, in curly letters.
“You play really well. Do you want to play again, once where on the sea?”
She wore a light summer frock, which danced in the cool summer breeze, no longer carrying his notes, but mine.
“Yeah, sure.”
She returned my smile, took my hand and we ran on the beach laughing.
And the wind was filled with our laughter.
