Skończyłam naukę, jutro egzamin. Chcąc oderwać się od prawniczego języka, otwieram gazetę. Ale wcale nie skupiam się na tekście. Gazeta pachnie jak dom cioci, której już nie ma. Zapach trudny do określenia - tutaj to pewnie farba drukarska, tam na pewno było to coś innego. Ale - jest identyczny.
Wspomnienia wracają. Rosół - najlepszy, jaki jadłam. Nawet Babci jest na drugim miejscu. Wieczne kłótnie z drugim mężem, których wysłuchuję i myślę, ile musiała kupić, skoro wydała całe pieniądze. Konieczność zjedzenia grubego na ponad centymetr plastra różowej wędliny. Mimo, że zerkam błagalnym wzrokiem na mamę, w końcu ją przeżuwam. Lampa-lalka, w brzoskwiniowej sukience, o której marzyłam, że kiedyś trafi w moje ręce. Haftowane chusteczki do nosa, które wiecznie wypadają jej z rękawów. Dwadzieścia-kilka figurek Matki Boskiej na nocnym stoliku. Zna wszystkie ich nazwy. Piosenka, ułożona w czasie zaawansowanego już stadium choroby. Osiem rymowanych zwrotek. I zapewnienie, że pamięta i modli się o moją maturę. Lody, cały rok lody. I biały Polonez Caro, którym wciąż łamie przepisy.
Ciocia, która była jak druga babcia. Siebie nazywała "Pietruszką". Pamiętała o wszystkich, dziś mało kto pamięta o niej. Był czas, że odwiedzała mnie we śnie. Składając życzenia w dniu imienin mamy albo uśmiechając się do mnie z fotela w ogrodzie. O czym powiedziałabym jej dzisiaj? Że mam się dobrze i miała rację, że kobiecie trzeba ustąpić pierwszeństwa. Zwłaszcza na drodze.
I 've just finished learning for tomorrow's exam. To break away from legal language, I open some newspaper. But I don't focus on the text. The newspaper smells like the house of my aunt that no longer lives. A smell difficult to determine - here it's probably ink, there it certainly was something else. But - it is identical .
The memories come back. Chicken soup - the best I've ever tasted. Even Grandma's one is in the second place. The eternal quarrels with her second husband I listen to and think what she had to buy so she spent all the money. The order to eat more than a centimeter- thick patch of pink ham. Although I look at my mom imploring, I eventually chew it. A lamp being a doll in peach dress, which I dreamed one day would go in my hands. Embroidered handkerchiefs that always fall out of her sleeves. Twenty - some figures of the Virgin Mary on the nightstand. She knows all their names. The song, arranged in the time of already advanced stage of her disease. Eight rhyming verses. And her ensuring that she remembers and prays for my high school diploma. Ice cream, ice cream all year round. And white Polonez Caro (a Polish car) which she still breaks the rules on the road in.
My aunt who was like a second grandmother. She called herself "Parsley Auntie". She has always remembered of everyone, today hardly anyone remembers her. There was a time that she was visiting me in dreams. Giving wishes on my mom's name day or grinning at me from her chair in the garden. What would I tell her today? That I'm fine and that she was right that you need to give a right of way to a woman. Especially on the road.
The memories come back. Chicken soup - the best I've ever tasted. Even Grandma's one is in the second place. The eternal quarrels with her second husband I listen to and think what she had to buy so she spent all the money. The order to eat more than a centimeter- thick patch of pink ham. Although I look at my mom imploring, I eventually chew it. A lamp being a doll in peach dress, which I dreamed one day would go in my hands. Embroidered handkerchiefs that always fall out of her sleeves. Twenty - some figures of the Virgin Mary on the nightstand. She knows all their names. The song, arranged in the time of already advanced stage of her disease. Eight rhyming verses. And her ensuring that she remembers and prays for my high school diploma. Ice cream, ice cream all year round. And white Polonez Caro (a Polish car) which she still breaks the rules on the road in.
My aunt who was like a second grandmother. She called herself "Parsley Auntie". She has always remembered of everyone, today hardly anyone remembers her. There was a time that she was visiting me in dreams. Giving wishes on my mom's name day or grinning at me from her chair in the garden. What would I tell her today? That I'm fine and that she was right that you need to give a right of way to a woman. Especially on the road.
