the peace yard

Written by Cathoel Jorss, published 11 years ago

Walking home down rainy streets my last night in this house. Tomorrow unnest, budge myself, nudge, shift. Winter has landed with its big wings. Now the warmth of the indoors folds us in, the subway’s roaring throat, we all descend, we bring our dogs and biscuits. I saw two small boys fighting in the subway train, one slammed his hand down on the other one’s shoulder their sister put back her head and roared. They were hipheight to everyone’s delicate glances, the mother looked estranged. In this city if they serve you tea it is a mess of hot water in a clear jar (hard, chalky water, that dries white) and with spoon and bag of leaves laid on the white milky ceramic… neatly. Effervescent neatness, the German delight: effortless neatless and high art and kitsch. German joy, Friede; German graveyard, Friedhof. I’m leaving I’m leaving. I’m coming I’m coming: Australia wait for me. Maybe forever as jet blurting travel grows inexcusably wrong. Standing stranded on the traffic island as the creamy lights pour in three strands down the hill like pearls and the crimson lights pour like Christmas up: I said something aloud to myself in German, I started to cry. Thank you for your hospitality, your kindness, your warmth to all the strangers, your strangeness, your calm. The leaves shaped like webbed hands that wave in the wind. The strings of lights under the lip of each awning. The Grüss dich, the Tschüssi in shops, the dogs. In 24 mornings more, I’ll be gone.