2021
The summer house is still there. It stands there. Like an in-between world that no longer turns, while to the right and left everything stoically goes its steady course. This is the real world. In it, it doesn't matter what I do, whether I'm there or not. It does not live from me. It just keeps on turning, regardless of anything else. The summer house, however, stands in the in-between world which exists only through me and which stops at the end of my imagination. A time of memory. An eternal time. A snow-covered time.
1988
It is a June day. Not yet as hot as in high summer, but already blindingly bright and warm. The wind cools the air. That's how it might have been. At least that's how it is in my memory. This picture stands motionless before my inner eye, half indistinctly. Grandpa Herbert shows my mother the summer house and the big garden with the huge strawberry bed. The two of them are standing somewhere to my right. My mother has shoulder-length, pitch-black hair. I can't turn my head to see her. My memory won't allow it. But I can see her black hair in the old photograph. I lie in the garden on a metal camping bed that is covered with a hard, flower-patterned fabric and look up at the blue sky. The scratchy fabric is attached to the metal frame of the bed with steel springs, and every movement of my body makes a squeaking sound. So, I try to lie calmly on my back while thinking that the eight weeks of summer vacation I will spend in the summer house seem like an eternity.
