I
The lingering
The sadness of leaving home lingered in me for days.
I've told some people at work about it, followed by an awkward silence at a communal loss for words. Many of my colleagues live away from home; you just have to assume there are stories. The thing is, the office lunch can not facilitate such emotional grandeur. You'd need moonlight, a spark of fire, and a couple of blankets for it. In a way, the office is a refuge from topics that run deep like subterranean rivers. It doesn't matter how much you miss your grandmother; the day's news will be the special sort of bean that's been put into the coffee machine. That's just how it is.
On day six, I've come to the conclusion that missing my family is a gift. A personal movie in which the heart aches over what is invaluable. I called my grandma to tell her I was still sad to have had to come back to Copenhagen. She said she would not allow it. I proceeded to scan vegetables in the store, and we spoke about how it would be if my mother, her daughter, took better care of herself.
"It will all fall into place," we agreed. It will all fall into place.
II
Margarita
Call me a liar, but I've met another Margaret. I don't know what this cosmic crossover of Margaretness represents in the grand scheme of things, but it fills me with delight.
Both of the Margarets get it. There is something about meeting another woman that feels like the set of your own movie collapsing into a vast but familiar expanse of many others, just like yours. Like running into an old friend; it's the number of statements spanning decades you know she would hear precisely how they are meant to be heard. Because she, too, walked through the hallways of her high school thinking about things, and she met new friends and lost touch with those old ones, and her favorite jeans got ripped, and he was a jerk, but she cared for him, and some things you just can not change.
She asked to swap our wine glasses to avoid drinking Moscato herself. My glass had something else in it, which happened to have been previously delivered to my equally oblivious grip. I told her that I have the great misfortune of liking all wines.
We swapped without giving it another thought.
Her Instagram bio says to call her Marge if we're cool. I thought we must be cool to so nonchalantly make each other's lives better.
III
Like a Woman on a Towel
I’m experiencing a certain sense of completeness, an allowance to feel things and do absolutely nothing about it. It’s strange, and it’s nice, and it’s against everything I’ve ever known. To know that the creature, intuitive and open, can be on her. Don’t ask me to explain. I just know that suddenly, I could do with less (doing).
I’ve written a poem.
To arrive at the beach is to sift through the narrow passage of the hourglass, particle by particle, to meet oneself cradled in the lush micro-curl of the towel. To swim far is to swallow the mountain whole. To swim far is to know the body as your own warm vessel. You’re onto something if you feel your rubber skin fall to your ankles like a scuba suit. Step aside and feel yourself complete like a woman on a towel.
IV
Dismantling of the Matryoshka Doll
Not unlike the labored dismantling of the Matryoshka doll, it took several days for us to finally stand in line. My mother, for one, couldn't stop cleaning. My grandmother, being the oldest, knew not to tempt the wrath of the gods she'd given birth to. I stood up for justice, as is to be expected from the young, soon thereafter settling into a communion of eyes with grandma, whispering sweet nothings. Her daughter doesn't have it easy. All her love scattered around words that refuse to host it. No wonder she washed every curtain, rearranged cutlery, and threw away one-third of Grandma's possessions.
Chatting is not our domain. We can not agree on the sentiment, the tempo, the volume, the purpose of it. I've concluded we'd be much better suited for a ritual—to have more things that simply are a given. To be around more.
There was an evening, though, that snuck itself in like a well-worn blouse at the bottom of the laundry bin. Looking in from the outside, you wouldn't think it unusual. Three women sitting in front of a family house, a common sight in southern Croatia.
Not for us, not for several years.
Our neighbor must have known something was at play as she quickly surpassed the garden fence and sat amongst us. I was grateful. I stood up to offer refreshments and, let's not kid ourselves—alcohol. They spoke about raising children, about good old teachers, and about husbands who aren't what they used to be. I happened not to relate to any of the categories. So I sat there, giving clues of engaged listening. Grandma didn't speak much, either. It was more between the neighbor and my mother to let each other talk. In a different world, I might have said Excuse my mother; she is ahead of herself. But I didn't. I enjoyed every second of it.
Earlier than most neighbors would, our neighbor stood up and went home.
We remained sitting as the original cast of the family house. I looked towards the skies and found that the summer night had us in its warm embrace.
V
Epilogue
I've written another poem. It's a daytime poem. A poem about a nap, if you will.
I just think it's absolutely hilarious that my mother can be speaking to me one moment, and be (will)fully asleep the next.
Thank you for reading!
Yours, Katka.