Writing: done. Editing: in progress.

25. Juli 2016 at 23:10 (Blog) (, , , , , , , , )

It is done. I have completed the last chapter of my first novel written in English today. So please let me introduce to you:


The River of Recollection

Two women – sisters/strangers – invite the reader to join them on their journey between sanity and insanity, truth and lie. In the course of five days, they revisit their real and imagined memories, they lose loved ones and find new friends. They try to flee from reality until their past finally catches up with them.


Now the hardest part starts for me: the editing of my eleven chapters plus epilogue. I’ve received tons of great feedback from The Baked Potatoes which I will include into my work in the next few weeks. Subsequently, I’ll try to find a publisher or if that is too hard an agent or if that is still too hard at least an editor who helps me to refine my writing so the agents and publishers will give my manuscript a fair chance 😉

Wish me luck and if you have any tips or recommendations on how to get published, fire away in the comments. Cheers! 🙂

PS: The short story mentioned in the last blog post will have to wait for a few more days…

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Sign of Life

28. Mai 2016 at 22:04 (Blog) (, , , , , , )

It’s been awfully quiet on my blog and because there are still people dropping by now and again – cheers, you guys! – I want to take a moment to explain why there is so little going on here.

In the past five months,

  • I’ve completed my master’s thesis and have taken my last university exam (for now).
  • I’ve travelled far, far away to celebrate that.
  • And I’ve written at least half of the novel that has been haunting me for years. My special thanks goes out to my writing and feedback group, famously known as The Baked Potatoes. I wouldn’t have written so much without you and am sincerely grateful for your interest in and help with my novel!

I can’t quite say where my blog is headed to right now. I’m sure it’s not blog heaven, but I can’t promise that there will be a lot of new stories appearing here soon. I am rewriting one story at the moment that I’ll publish soonish. However, I am kind of consumed by the two main characters of my novel, who you’ve already met in my last Christmas story – Clara and Marlene. Without wanting to take too much away I can say that in my novel, they won’t be kids anymore. As their story is rather complex, I need to stay with them and concentrate on them for some more time. Maybe I can present some outtakes here that won’t be featured in the novel, but as the story is still developing, I’m not sure how much I can share at this point.

I kindly want to ask you to bear with me – I value you greatly as my readership and can assure you: There will be a lot more to read in the not so remote future!

Cheers, Marie-Thérèse / MT

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Gedicht #1

29. September 2015 at 18:29 (Blog, Gedichte) (, , , , )


So viele Berührungen
haben wir geteilt
aus schmerzlicher Ferne.

So viele Blicke
haben wir einander geschenkt,
Rücken an Rücken.

So oft haben sich
unsere Lippen getroffen,

im Nichts

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Mein erstes (Bilder-)Buch

4. April 2015 at 17:18 (Blog) (, , , , , , , , )

Meine Mama hat vor kurzem mein vermutlich erstes (und einziges?) fertiggestelltes „Werk“ gefunden, das ich so mit acht, neun Jahren verfasst und illustriert habe. Anbei die Fotos mit kritischen Kommentaren der gealterten Autorin/Illustratorin 😉

(Einfach auf das erste Bild klicken, um die Foto-Galerie größer anzuzeigen.)

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Daily Prompt: If You Leave

13. März 2014 at 01:23 (Blog, Posts in English) (, , , , , )

“Life is a series of beginnings and endings. We leave one job to start another; we quit cities, countries, or continents for a fresh start; we leave lovers and begin new relationships. What was the last thing you contemplated leaving? What were the pros and cons? Have you made up your mind? What will you choose?
Photographers, artists, poets: show us CROSSROADS.”

Again, I couldn’t resist the daily prompt 😉 http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/03/12/daily-prompt-if-you-leave/


If you leave I won’t cry
I won’t waste a single day
But if you leave don’t look back
I’ll be running the other way…

Those are some of the lines of a song called “If You Leave”, originally performed by “The Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark”. These lines are the soundtrack to my running away. I’ve loved this song since I’ve first heard it. It was in a dark cellar, lit up with candles and some disco lights, filled with hot air, dancing and the smells of beer and cigarettes… It was a grand night for a young fellow like me, who had only been to a few parties which had always ended much too early and without the kiss of my current heartthrob. But this time, I would stay till the end, till Sammy’s mom would come downstairs in her pyjamas and would ask “who’d like some coffee?” like there was nothing wrong with partying the whole night long.

Sammy’s mom was one of the coolest moms in town, if not in the whole world. She was divorced, but still got along quite well with Sammy’s dad. She had those crazy curls that used to curl away from her skull in every possible direction. Sometimes she used to joke that in her last life she had been Medusa and her curls had been snakes. She really liked to joke around with us young people, she was never judgmental and never ever did she tell us to go to bed or to keep the music down. Sammy’s mom died two days ago – I considered going to the funeral. It’d be good to see Sammy again, after all those years. But home is an awful lot of kilometres away from where I am now. And let’s be honest: I guess nobody would like to see me again after all, it’s been too long.

Yeah, right, it wasn’t my fault what happened in the course of that evening. I was young, I was drunk and a little crazy. I guess Sammy’s mom understood me, because she got teenagers really well. She understood that I couldn’t watch while old Ryan here came awfully close to taking away my girl. I mean, she didn’t know that she was mine – but then she knew. Violence is a bad way to show your feelings. I know it now, but sadly I didn’t know it when I was sixteen and drunk. Let’s put it like this: Old Ryan may have lost a tooth and cracked a rib, but well, I guess that’s not as bad as crushing all the knuckles of your right hand, like I did. I couldn’t write for two months and there were exams coming up, so that wasn’t a piece of cake either. Well and for Jeannie… She never spoke to me again, she just shot me icy glances across the room.

But Sammy’s mom was cool. She took me aside and didn’t say one word of reproval. She was all like “love’s tough” and “don’t drink and strike”, but without the motherly tone. Coolest mom ever. Unfortunately, my parents weren’t as cool about it, but that’s another story.

However, the song was one of the few things I’d be glad to remember of that evening. And these four lines described exactly how I’d leave each and every of the girls that were to be mine in the course of the next years. I liked to be cool about break-ups. After getting involved too much the evening I hit Ryan, I toned my feelings down a notch. I didn’t get emotional anymore. In every relationship, after some months, I started to feel crushed. Not quickly and painfully crushed like my knuckles had been when they had met Ryan’s face and chest. No, it was the slowest process of crushing I had ever experienced. My soul was chucked into a vice that slowly, oh so slowly, got tighter and tighter. I couldn’t move and I couldn’t breathe and worst of all – I couldn’t think clearly. The only thought that occupied my mind was “leave… leave before you lose your heart”. And so I did. But leaving felt no better than being left behind, I couldn’t cry and I kept running, running until I felt safe and lonely once more.

And then I met Sammy’s mom again. She didn’t look well – I hardly recognised the woman who was so in love with life despite all the bad things that had happened to her what with her husband cheating on her and Sammy not being the easiest of kids to raise. I kissed her on the cheek that felt like parchment and not like the rosy skin she had had before. Her eyes were tired and instead of her curly hair she wore a flowery headscarf. “The doctors here are the best”, she told me, “but it’s hopeless. I knew it from the start, but I promised my loved ones that I would keep trying, keep going on. It’s hard, the chemo’s sucking up all of my energy… But you can’t run away from the challenges life bears for you. Do you understand? Make mistakes, say stupid things and hurt people you love… But just don’t run away without apologising.” She made me put two fingers together and hold them up like I was Jesus Christ, blessing some bread and wine and say “I swear”.

I don’t know how she did it, but she always found the right thing to say at exactly the moment I needed to hear it. I wish I could have said something that changed her life as much as she changed mine – at last, my running song is just reserved for Sunday morning workout and not for leaving my girlfriends.

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Daily Prompt: The Heat is On

10. März 2014 at 20:07 (Blog, Posts in English) (, )

Do you thrive under pressure or crumble at the thought of it? Does your best stuff surface as the deadline approaches or do you need to iterate, day after day to achieve something you’re proud of? Tell us how you work best.
Photographers, artists, poets: show us PRESSURE.”

That’s the challenge of today’s “Daily Prompt”: http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/03/10/daily-prompt-heat/. I’ve already written a story inspired by a Daily Prompt once (https://loveanddeathandeverythinginbetween.wordpress.com/2013/12/04/daily-prompt-now-you-see-me/) – so let’s try another one.


The deadline has become a dead end for me. There is no way I can avoid failing – the clock ticks off the seconds as I am slowly despairing. The task I have been given is too hard for me. Living up to everybody’s expectations is not only painful, but it’s starting to take its toll. My hands are shaking, my mind is racing and my heart is thumping too fast. Panic wells up inside me, the panic I have tried to conceal for so long is starting to gush out of the constraints my mind has tried to build up around it. After all this time, it feels the same. It is a sensation of simultaneously falling and having already hit the ground. Fear and pain combined in a way that only exists in nightmares. You wake up screaming or crying, with your heart racing and so much fear inside you – but then you start to breathe again, to think again and to know that it has only been a bad dream.

But this is not a dream. It’s the sad reality that has hit the dreamer after years and years of too little consideration. I thought it would all work out in the end. But in half an hour’s time, the alarm will go off and I will get up and I will leave everything behind that I know and love. My beautiful wife, my beautiful baby, my beautiful home. I can only hope that someday, they will understand that I left to protect them. That my time is up – I’ve had my share of luck and now it’s time to go.

I made a deal with the devil, you know. And now he comes to deliver my one-way ticket to hell. I never wanted to borrow any money to build this life I have been living. But as the devilish bank accountant told me, I would have years and years to pay him back, I believed him. I believed that in ten years’ time everything would be better. That I would be able to stay for more than two months in the same job without being crushed by the responsibility and panicking. That I would be able to make my wife and daughter happy. That I would be able to lead the life I had always wanted to lead.

Today, the police will come and arrest me, because I never paid anything back. I didn’t pay the money back and most certainly did I not pay off the emotional debts I have piled up on the backs of my family. But if I go now, they will be happier than I can ever make them, if I go to jail. They won’t feel the obligation to come and visit me. They won’t have to see my face ever again. They will be able to hate me, because I was a coward who ran away.

They will lose everything, but they will not lose hope. My beautiful wife will find another man, who brushes away her tears. And my beautiful daughter will grow up to become an astute young woman who will never hook up with such an idiot as her father has been. I’m doing them a favour, it’s the first and last favour I have ever been granting them.

I kiss my sleeping beauties good-bye as I leave to pay my bills the only way I can.

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“The Hunger Games” – closer than we think?

13. Dezember 2013 at 01:18 (Blog, Posts in English) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , )

As my German-speaking audience knows, I hardly ever post anything personal on this blog. I have my reasons for doing so, but today, I want to share my thoughts with you and potentially with a crowd of English-speaking folks too.


I’ve just come home from the movies. My friend and I watched “The Hunger Games: Catching Fire” – the second part of a fictional book written by Suzanne Collins, which has been turned into a film. Basically (for those of you who don’t know the plot), “The Hunger Games” is about some courageous young people who fight against being oppressed by the system. And with fight, I mean really fight. Twenty-four of them are set in a deadly environment, every year – an environment, where it is not only hard to survive, but also necessary to kill the other “players” in order to ever get out of this nightmare. The game is broadcasted to the inhabitants of the country, who are being threatened and oppressed and hurt and killed, if they don’t conform to the system (or just because the guards feel like it).

When I left the cinema hall, I was a little bit overwhelmed by all the images that had etched their way into my brain. And not just because the film was dramatic and fascinating – but also because of one other fact.
“You know, this could also happen to us. It’s not that unrealistic – and perhaps not that far away”, I said to my friend as we were walking to the metro station.
“Just think of all the surveillance we’re under…”, she said.
“And somehow it reminds me of the big reality shows, where there is scripted reality, intrigues and made-up drama”, I replied.

On my way home, I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that society is really, really fucked-up (if you’ll excuse my saying so). And it wasn’t all that surprising that, when I came home and googled the background of “The Hunger Games”, I read that the author was inspired by a reality show and footage of the invasion of Iraq. Maybe my thoughts aren’t all that new, as I realise now, but all the same, I think it’s important to be aware of how close we are to all being a part of a big global game – without even realising it.

Think of how our system works. We are not only being monitored, as my friend pointed out – decisions are made for us, we are being put into positions in which we didn’t choose to be put. Think of the War on Terror – how little people had a say in deciding if it should take place or not? If millions of soldiers, civilians and so-called terrorists should die? It’s clear that this has nothing to do with a game, yes – but it is, like “The Hunger Games”, a means to appease the public, to prevent them from starting a riot, perhaps also to prevent them from starting to think for themselves.

Think of Edward Snowden. I don’t know if he is a hero of modern society. I only know that he is persecuted for revealing information that wasn’t ever intended to be made public (at this point, also think of Julian Assange and WikiLeaks). What does this tell us about the society we live in? Yes, there might be the freedom of speech. But apparently not for all of us. And once again, there are very few people who decide that Snowden and Assange are to be treated as traitors, not heros.

And then of course, there are reality shows. One such show in particular is on my mind, since I haven’t watched too many of them: “Germany’s Next Topmodel”. A bunch of girls is competing against each other, to win the ultimate prize: The opportunity to become a super model. Throughout the challenges, the girls are being humiliated. They are shown in their worst moments: Crying, in fear of giant spiders or snakes with which they have to pose for a photo, shivering with cold, being in pain because of the extreme work-outs or shoes that just don’t fit, or being told that they absolutely suck at being a model. And then, there are the dramatic moments, which aren’t real but made up. The reality in these shows is said to be scripted, they are saying one thing to one girl, another thing to the other one – and voilà, there’s some drama for the audience. I used to enjoy this drama too, I’m not better than anyone else when it comes to the power of light entertainment. But it wasn’t long before I realised that these shows left behind a very bitter taste in my mouth. A cruel game is played with the girls, a game where they are being constantly thrown out of their comfort zone – and which isn’t about helping someone to become a super model but about showing the audience how fun public degradation can be. (Please correct me, if I didn’t grasp the concept of these shows.)

I don’t really feel capable of writing about what happens in the poor countries on our planet. The kind of exploitation that must take place there, to keep up the lifestyle of the people living in the rich West (myself included). I don’t know how this could ever be changed, how we could get to be part of decisions instead of being overruled, and somehow I don’t really believe that political activism and going to demonstrations could solve that (really big) problem alone. I wouldn’t suggest a riot either, at least not one of those where once again there is violence instead of the possibility to peacefully tell your fellow human beings what is important for you.

I wouldn’t ever allow myself to say that I have a solution for making the world a better place. But I allow myself to give you this advice: Be aware of what is going on around you. Question decisions that are being made for you – and teach your children to do so. Stand up for your rights and for the rights of others, if you have the opportunity to do so. If you are in a position where you hold power over others – be it as a member of the police, a politician, a doctor or a soldier – act humbly and remember that those for whom you are making decisions are human beings too.

“The Hunger Games” was a warning for me, a warning that society is weak, when its members are not aware of what is happening around them. People fall all too gladly for the great leaders, as history has tragically shown. It might not be as comfortable to think for yourself and to be responsible for what you are doing. It’s always easier to let others do the hard work. And of course, not everyone has the chance to think for themselves – when you are in extreme poverty and don’t have access to food and education, you have other problems than to think about what is wrong with society. But you people who are lucky enough to sit in front of a computer and read this: Think twice. If we go on with not questioning what is happening around us, „The Hunger Games” are not at all as far away as you may think.

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Daily Prompt: Now You See Me

4. Dezember 2013 at 15:35 (Blog, Posts in English) (, )

And now for something off-topic and non-christmassy: Today, I stumbled upon this post http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/12/03/prompt-see-me/ – and although today there would have been a new challenge, I wanted to try out this one first. (I don’t usually write in English, so please pardon any mistakes I might make.)

So, if anybody happens to read this blog post, isn’t able to read German fluently, but wants to read more of my works: I write my love poems in English, you find them here.


I’ve been there, watching over you, for all of my life. It is only now that I am old and confused and haggard that you finally see me. You don’t see me in the way I wish you would: As a model for living your life consciously, embracing every moment of it and giving love to those who need it most.

No, you only see what is left behind of my once glamorous existence. You see a woman who hardly recognises her family, who spills food all over herself while eating and who walks so slowly that even a snail might reach its destination faster. You see me as the woman who once cared for you, which was okay, because I wanted to have you and I planned my life around you. But now you have to care for me, which is not okay, because you had planned your life differently, you have your own family now, your own children to raise.

You don’t see me as the loving mother I once was, you see me as your daily nuisance. It is so hard to explain things to me over and over again, only to have me ask the same question one minute later. It isn’t only painful for you to see me age and slowly vanish into a world that holds the promise that I won’t be bothering anybody there.

I wish you could enjoy it more to take care of me, because it will be the last thing you’ll do for me. It’s a job with an expiry date, there will come a day when all of this ends. Your stressed out way of handling me doesn’t bother me that much, you know. I know that you’re constantly in a hurry, you have to get so many things done every day. But I wish you would try to get some satisfaction out of caring for me – the feeling that you’re doing something good, something meaningful, something you will be rewarded for in another life.

But no, you’re too young and I’m too old to teach you anything. You will only see what I would like to tell you, if my mind wasn’t so wrecked, when you are old yourself. You might not know, because I never told you, but I have given up a lot of things for you too. My career, lots of friendships and in the end even my nice apartment. But I didn’t care, because you are my son and although it isn’t my job to make you happy or give up everything for you, I gladly did it.

I just hope these memories will come back, when all of this is over. Perhaps you will tell your children and grandchildren about me – not the woman you see now, but the woman I was then.

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Wiener Fotomarathon

19. September 2013 at 10:31 (Blog) (, , , , , )

Am 14. September hat der Wiener Fotomarathon zum zehnten Mal stattgefunden – und ich war erstmals dabei. Meine Liebe zum ausgiebigen Schlafen war dann aber doch ein wenig größer als die Motivation, 24 Fotos innerhalb von 12 Stunden zu vorgegebenen Themen in der richtigen Reihenfolge festzuhalten, und so habe ich mich mit dem Halbmarathon zufrieden gegeben. Wenn ich einen Marathon gelaufen wäre, hätte ich ja schließlich auch nicht gleich mit 42,195 Kilometern angefangen 😉

Hier darf ich euch nun die zwölf Fotos präsentieren, die ich an jenem regnerischen Samstag moralisch unterstützt von meiner äußerst geduldigen Begleitung „geschossen“ habe:

Update (15.11.2013): Ich bin auf Platz 23 von 516 Halbmarathon-Teilnehmern gelandet – und habs damit grade noch auf die erste Seite der Ergebnisse geschafft. Hier seht ihr alle Foto-Serien in meiner Kategorie: http://www.fotomarathon.at/Wien/2013/Bildergalerie/Halbmarathon/ (Und auch die Fotos vom Vollmarathon bzw. Jugendbewerb sind sehenswert!)

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In Memoriam

16. September 2012 at 23:27 (Blog) (, , )

Für einen besonderen Menschen breche ich mit meinem Grundsatz, keine persönlichen Geschichten auf meinem Blog zu veröffentlichen. Diesmal ist es mir wichtiger, dass eine Erinnerung weiterlebt als dass mein Privatleben unter Verschluss bleibt. Denn beim Tod geht es immer auch um das Weiterleben, das Nicht-vergessen-werden – deswegen möchte ich hier eine Kerze aus Worten für diesen besonderen Menschen entzünden und (für die Ewigkeit?) leuchten lassen.

In einem Seminar im Sommersemester 2010 bekamen wir die Aufgabenstellung, eine Reportage zu verfassen. Ich wollte über etwas schreiben, das mich wirklich betrifft, berührt. So entstand „Ein ganz normaler Sonntagnachmittag“.

Mein Opa hat seit dem Tod meiner Omi (kurz vor meinem neunten Geburtstag) bei uns gelebt. Er hat viel Zeit mit mir und meinem Bruder verbracht, er war eine Bezugsperson für mich, ein fixer Bestandteil unseres Ess- und Wohnzimmers – ebenso wie seine Geschichten. Er war ein großartiger Geschichtenerzähler. Wer ihn kannte, kann sich vielleicht an die eine oder andere Erzählung über seine vielen Wanderungen und Radtouren oder die Zeit während des Kriegs erinnern. Und wer ihn nicht persönlich kannte, kann hier einen Einblick in das Leben eines Mannes gewinnen, der sich in seinem Leben vielen Widrigkeiten und Herausforderungen stellen musste und es dabei geschafft hat, seinem lebensfrohen Selbst bis zum Schluss stets treu zu bleiben.

Hier eine Erinnerung an meinen lieben Opa.


Ein ganz normaler Sonntagnachmittag

Während der letzten paar Meter, die wir auf das zweistöckige weiße Haus mit den blauen Säulen zufahren, halten wir bereits Ausschau. Wie jeden Sonntagnachmittag steht der bereits von der Sonne gebräunte ältere Herr mit einem freundlichen Lächeln in seinem faltigen Gesicht draußen und wartet auf uns. Wir steigen aus dem Auto aus, überqueren die Straße und begrüßen meinen 91-jährigen Großvater.

„Was machen wir jetzt?“, fragt er. Wir gehen spazieren, so wie jedes Mal, wenn es schön ist. Jetzt im Sommer werden unsere nachmittäglichen Spaziergänge seltener werden, die Sonne scheint viel zu heiß auf den kleinen asphaltierten Gehweg. Die Bäume, die den linken Wegrand säumen, sind der Sonne zugewandt und bieten keinen Schatten. Aber heute ist gutes Wetter zum Spaziergehen, der Himmel ist bedeckt.

Auf der Höhe des Gefahrenschildes mit dem Zusatz „Seniorenheim“ halten wir kurz an. Opa zeigt auf das Maisfeld, ein grünes Blättermeer liegt vor uns. Die Pflanzen sind schon etwa einen halben Meter hoch. Gestern wurden sie gedüngt, erzählt uns mein Großvater.

Der Spazierweg führt an einem weiteren Feld vorbei. Über Nacht seien die Pflanzen plötzlich ganz groß geworden, erklärt Opa. Er zählt die ersten paar Reihen. Diese vier seien anders als die anderen. Er hat Recht – die ersten vier grünen Streifen breiten sich parallel zum Weg aus, während die anderen horizontal verlaufen. Was dort wächst, wissen wir nicht, wir erkennen die großen, ein wenig pelzigen Blätter nicht. Vielleicht Kürbisse? Das nächste Mal wenn ich komme, werden sie schon Fleckerl, Tupfer oben haben, verspricht Opa mir. Wahrscheinlich meint er die Blüten.

Oft verstehen wir nicht, was er uns sagen will. Gestern Abend sei alles blau, schwarz, grau gewesen, sagt er und deutet auf das Feld. Doch wenn es abends dunkel wird, ist mein Großvater schon längst nicht mehr draußen, und Gewitter gab es am letzten Abend auch nicht. Aber es reicht ihm schon, wenn wir zustimmen und nicken.

Heute ist Opa gesprächig. Wenn es zu heiß ist, wird er wortkarg und das, was er sagt ist noch schwerer verständlich als sonst. Er findet nicht immer die richtigen Worte. Wenn wir draußen sind, ist es leichter, wir können manchmal sehen, was er meint. Unsere Gesprächsthemen beziehen sich meist auf das Wetter, die Natur rund um uns, besonders das Gedeihen der Pflanzen auf den Feldern und die Flugzeuge. Heute landen drei Flugzeuge auf dem nahegelegenen Flughafen, nachdem sie einen weiten Kreis über uns gezogen haben. Zwei zweimotorige und ein einmotoriges Flugzeug, wie Opa uns aufklärt.

Wir sitzen auf der einzigen Bank, die am Wegrand steht und lassen unsere Blicke über das grüne Feld vor uns schweifen. Heute hat er einen Hasen gesehen, zuerst ist er am Weg gesessen und dann durchs Feld gehüpft, berichtet mein Großvater uns. Hier kommen öfters Hasen vorbei.

Das Essen im Seniorenheim ist ein weiteres unserer Standardthemen. Was hat es denn heute zu Mittag gegeben? „So einen Mischmasch. In Schichten.“ Möglicherweise ein Auflauf. Der Nachbar hat den nur halb angerührt. Wahrscheinlich ist er verwöhnt. Sein Sitznachbar ist eigentlich eine Frau – doch dank ihrer kurzen grauen Haare ist Opa der festen Überzeugung, es sei ein Mann und sagt konsequent „er“, wenn er von ihr erzählt.

Langsam wird es Zeit aufzubrechen, denn wir wollen noch auf sein Zimmer gehen, um die frische Wäsche abzuliefern und die schmutzige mitzunehmen, wie jeden Sonntag. Vor dem „Haus der Senioren“ blühen stets viele Blumen, zurzeit zeigen rosarote Rosen ihre üppige Blütenpracht. Wir gehen hinein. Vom Eingangsbereich sieht man in den Speisesaal, wir grüßen in die Runde und winken den anderen Bewohnern. Wir sind hier bereits bekannt. Ich höre, wie eine der Pflegerinnen „und jetzt weit aufmachen“ sagt.

Mit dem Aufzug fahren wir in den zweiten Stock. Opa drückt gleich den richtigen Knopf, die letzten Male hat er zur Sicherheit auch auf den Knopf mit der Eins gedrückt. Im Lift hängt die Liste mit dem Essen. Wir sehen gleich nach, was es zum Abendessen gibt: Gulasch.

Wir grüßen den weißhaarigen Herren, der immer im blauen Polstersessel neben dem Lift sitzt. Im Zimmer angekommen, beginnt meine Mutter, die Wäsche zu sortieren. Sie richtet auch gleich das Gewand für den nächsten Tag. Möchte Opa lieber ein Hemd mit Knöpfen oder ein Polohemd anziehen? Er zuckt mit den Schultern, es ist ihm egal. Dafür zeigt er auf sein Bett und sagt mir stolz, dass es heute frisch bezogen wurde. Und seine Schuhe bewundere ich auch gleich. Er hat neue Sohlen bekommen, angeklebt, die alten waren schon abgegangen.

Wir haben Kirschen und Erdbeeren für meinen Großvater mitgebracht. Er nimmt drei Kirschen heraus: „Für jeden eine.“ Das ist seine Art, „Danke“ zu sagen.

„Jetzt ist’s schon bald so weit“, meint er etwas später. Er hat sich gemerkt, dass wir um dreiviertel fünf losfahren müssen, damit ich meinen Zug erwische. Wir brechen auf, Opa begleitet uns noch hinunter. Heute scheint es ihm wirklich gut zu gehen, er drückt wieder gleich auf den richtigen Knopf im Lift. Wir winken wieder in den Speisesaal und verabschieden uns vor der Tür von meinem Großvater.

„Bis nächste Woche“, sage ich, „mach’s gut!“

„Mach’s du noch besser!“, antwortet er. So wie früher, vor dem Schlaganfall.


Nachsatz: Mein Opa ist am 14. September 2012 im Alter von 93 Jahren verstorben.

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