song null. face null. space null. / 9
iET
Every Time You Go Away
November 2018
Hello there Madam. I’m up here. Here, in the window. Would you look up, please?
She doesn’t look. I sway the dance of soothing. My child’s little head against my heart. Together we are one; she lives on me, perhaps even more than when my womb was her home.
Good day, sir with your little dog. I’m here, in the bay window. Do you see me?
He doesn’t look. I sway more gently this time. I hum her music, on and on, always the same melody. The soft tones that calm her down. I walk from window to window, looking at the world that I don’t know anymore. And that doesn’t see me. It is almost dusk. This day had more hours than I was aware of. Seconds seemed like minutes. I miss him so much. “He’s almost home,” I whisper to her little head. Her eyelashes move ever so lightly.
Hello there, little girl with your bike. It’s so cold today, at least that’s what I assume: your bonnet all but covers your eyes, so you can’t see us. You better hurry home to your mummy.
“He’s almost home. Almost,” I whisper again. And tomorrow is another day. I kiss your soft hairs. We keep dancing, you and I. To your rhythm. Your music. Until I can write my own notes again. A woman. She sees us. She smiles and puts up her hand. I can’t wave. I’m holding you. I nod to her. I am her audience. Singing along is allowed.
December 2020
“Hello neighbour,” you say to the man walking past our house.
You press your little nose against the windowpane. You make me smile. “Hello neighbour,” you say to the woman who crosses the street deep in her coat collar. You blow your breath against the windowpane, and with your finger you draw her. A stick figure.
“Hello neighbour,” you say to the neighbours’ cat. To the dog that is being walked. To the child on its bike that cycles by, grown since last time.
You see them all. Each and every one of them. They’re all neighbours. A large procession, right in front of your own house. A young woman looks up. She pulls her face mask down, and waves at us. We are a living painting, the two of us in this window. We happily wave back. And thus she becomes our audience. “You’re allowed to sing along,” I whisper to her.
November 2018
Hello there Madam. I’m up here. Here, in the window. Would you look up, please?
She doesn’t look. I sway the dance of soothing. My child’s little head against my heart. Together we are one; she lives on me, perhaps even more than when my womb was her home.
Good day, sir with your little dog. I’m here, in the bay window. Do you see me?
He doesn’t look. I sway more gently this time. I hum her music, on and on, always the same melody. The soft tones that calm her down. I walk from window to window, looking at the world that I don’t know anymore. And that doesn’t see me. It is almost dusk. This day had more hours than I was aware of. Seconds seemed like minutes. I miss him so much. “He’s almost home,” I whisper to her little head. Her eyelashes move ever so lightly.
Hello there, little girl with your bike. It’s so cold today, at least that’s what I assume: your bonnet all but covers your eyes, so you can’t see us. You better hurry home to your mummy.
“He’s almost home. Almost,” I whisper again. And tomorrow is another day. I kiss your soft hairs. We keep dancing, you and I. To your rhythm. Your music. Until I can write my own notes again. A woman. She sees us. She smiles and puts up her hand. I can’t wave. I’m holding you. I nod to her. I am her audience. Singing along is allowed.
December 2020
“Hello neighbour,” you say to the man walking past our house.
You press your little nose against the windowpane. You make me smile. “Hello neighbour,” you say to the woman who crosses the street deep in her coat collar. You blow your breath against the windowpane, and with your finger you draw her. A stick figure.
“Hello neighbour,” you say to the neighbours’ cat. To the dog that is being walked. To the child on its bike that cycles by, grown since last time.
You see them all. Each and every one of them. They’re all neighbours. A large procession, right in front of your own house. A young woman looks up. She pulls her face mask down, and waves at us. We are a living painting, the two of us in this window. We happily wave back. And thus she becomes our audience. “You’re allowed to sing along,” I whisper to her.