Marie's page

I went to visit her the last week of March. Something about her that day was different then before, and when we door shut behind us, me and my mom exchanged a look full of uncertain premonition. She was 92.

A week later, I got a call late in the evening from one of her old friends: „I know how your family is… I just wanted to let you know I don’t think she has much time left. And I think she would like you to have some books and other things from the flat, Marie. She was very hung up on you… You know that.”

I do know that. I assured her that I took some records already a few years ago, and the books are safely stored, at least for now.

And it was too late to pass on the important things anyway. When you make a chain, you cannot leave one piece cracked and then connect it to the next one as if nothing happened, and no amount of care will prevent it from breaking apart. She made sure I held up, even under pressure, but most things are beyond our control.

Without her, there is almost nothing left. Well, one person is – but that is contested legacy. I’ve always been told I look and speak exactly like she did, for better or worse. Will it make people cry? Will they look me in the eyes, search for something similar, realise that it’s there – will it make them break? And will it break me?

I’ve been feeling a bit numb most of the week. I got shaky when I first said it out loud, but not since. Saturday evening, I was picking a book for the journey and suddenly I remembered how her bed looked the last time we went there – between the crumpled pillows and bedsheets we found a small novel, still opened, her sleeping next to it. What was the last word she read that day? Did she continue the book after we left? Or was that it, the moment she realised she does not have the energy to finish the sentence anymore and put the book down, never to pick it up again?

I had this theory that when you are old, no one holds you anymore, so every time I went, I made sure to embrace her, hold her hand, and that day, it was the only thing we did, words were not spoken at all. It was beautiful, in a way. She was always so proud and so worried, about how far I am, my studies, my family, if I still draw sometimes and about my loveless life, and I always just laughed. It’s hard when they turn out as they wanted, but maybe not as they wished.

The piece will take 12 minutes 27 seconds. It’s Dvořák’s Romance in F Minor, Op. 11, performed by Suk. I think she would like this little detail, even if it’s not the only piano and violin version which she usually preffered. But I only managed to find that one very sped up and it sounds a bit silly. It starts very grave but then turns hopeful, just as our conversations often did. And I’ll dwell on that second feeling, I promise.