New Habits or How Not to Forget
written by: Greetje Baresel
On my spontaneous walk to the only grocery store in Bagenkop, Denmark I wave the semi-wild horses hello. They are standing there with their heads bowed, like the pines by the shore, subject to the ever-changing winds. One seems to be missing.
Dusk is falling as I return; I can barely make out the prehistoric grave on the hill. Yesterday I crawled inside to see how it feels. We all stood on top, facing the eternally indifferent sea, and admired how peaceful it looked. Nan had to sit down. She gets dizzy sometimes now.
The anorak I’m wearing is gigantic, it even has enough space for the Marmite and the pumpkin seed oil. Looking for my keys I realise I’ve forgotten them, but it doesn’t matter. I ring the bell.
Mum’s partner stands in the kitchen, I notice her wearing his apron, the one my brother and I painted when we were little. It looks wrong on her. At least it is me who carefully carries the steaming pots to the table nowadays. I wish my footsteps were just as quiet yet determined as my grandpa’s; the ground always seemed to bend and soften so willingly for him.
“Shouldn’t we perhaps listen to something other than Shostakovich for a change, don’t you think?” Mum asks Nan. I notice Mum is solving the eleventh sudoku of the day. We all have new habits. For me, I can’t help doing everyday maths without a calculator. It’s like a ritual to commemorate him.
It must be nearly 8pm.
The constant breaking of waves, audible in every room, could easily be mistaken for low snoring emanating from a grandfather chair. I step out onto the terrace and the familiar duo of wind and sea spray greets me out of the dark, as though they had only been waiting to kindly pat me on the shoulder in passing, asking whether I had seen their reading glasses. I close my eyes, stand up straight and let the ever-salty air fill my lungs, listening, willing to hear his voice. I haven’t seen them, no, but I’ll keep an eye out for them. Thanks. Pat, pat.
When the others join me at the table, there are four people and five plates of steaming pumpkin soup. I jump up, realising my mistake, but it’s too late, everybody noticed. The plate burns my fingers as I tilt it, pouring the soup back into the pot, accompanied by bewildered stares. Opening the dishwasher, my hands begin to tremble, and I bite my already bruised lips. I won’t cry now. I already cried on the terrace, and I think Nan saw it. I’m trying my best, I really am, but how should I know what’s best, really? We would never admit to developing these new habits. All we do is notice them in each other, knowing the reason but never mentioning it.
“Did you know Shostakovich regularly sent postcards to himself to check how well the postal service worked?” I say, sitting down, cleaning up my soup-stained sweater.
“I didn’t! That’s really interesting!” someone says.
“Yeah.” I smile, eyes wide open, glancing around the table. And we eat.
- New Habits or How Not to Forget - February 21, 2024
