In an inconsiderable corner of my wardrobe I found a picture of Paul and me. I looked at the picture with well-fare feelings, though I was amazed how little of my memories remained.
After all these years, I wouldn’t be able to describe much. A rough shape. An idea of the color. The large windows that overlooked the street. His plausible appearance.
But now, with the picture in my hands, the gray outlines are suddenly filled with details and colors and grow together into a whole.
In my mind, I rebuilt the house in all its beauty. The white coffee-colored facade appears, interspersed with large windows with delicate floral ornaments. The topless beautiful icons of Art Nouveau that look down on the passers-by guard the house. The chalk messages on the base says in big letters “EXIT” and right below is scribbled “R loves J”.
Thinking of the many stories I connect with the house, I try to shape the rooms in the interior, to reconstruct the garden in the rear. It is difficult. I can imagine stately rooms suffused with light and huddled cabinets with a dull ambience. I can imagine ordered vegetable patches in the back of the garden and a small path leading through wild greenery. The contradictions of the images are confusing. I wonder if they belong together or have the memories become blurred? I wonder if my memories of today are still the memories of the past?
They broke down the building years ago. So, all that’s left is a picture of Paul and me. A picture that is capable of showing only a detail. The actual space of remembrance has vanished.
After all these years, I wouldn’t be able to describe much. A rough shape. An idea of the color. The large windows that overlooked the street. His plausible appearance.
But now, with the picture in my hands, the gray outlines are suddenly filled with details and colors and grow together into a whole.
In my mind, I rebuilt the house in all its beauty. The white coffee-colored facade appears, interspersed with large windows with delicate floral ornaments. The topless beautiful icons of Art Nouveau that look down on the passers-by guard the house. The chalk messages on the base says in big letters “EXIT” and right below is scribbled “R loves J”.
Thinking of the many stories I connect with the house, I try to shape the rooms in the interior, to reconstruct the garden in the rear. It is difficult. I can imagine stately rooms suffused with light and huddled cabinets with a dull ambience. I can imagine ordered vegetable patches in the back of the garden and a small path leading through wild greenery. The contradictions of the images are confusing. I wonder if they belong together or have the memories become blurred? I wonder if my memories of today are still the memories of the past?
They broke down the building years ago. So, all that’s left is a picture of Paul and me. A picture that is capable of showing only a detail. The actual space of remembrance has vanished.
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