422

I used my index finger and thumb to shut her eyes. They were soft, compared to her limbs, those that we were trying to move back into the bed. Mrs. Krohn hat died suddenly.

I find her, in one of those nights – were the air and objekts felt odder than usual.

Knowing that she had died, before me finding her, made me think – this is as close as we would get.

She had not been my favorite patient, due to her nitpicking on so many things and the time it took to set everything in the order she wanted it in. Recalling the days I had smiled half-hearted, I pushed back a coarse strand of white hair, that had fallen too uneven to really fit her face.

A kind of deathly distortion had already set in. The kind were, the face and especially the nose have lost something. As if a trait – that could only be observed or felt, is indented in the face and only once it’s gone, you see what is missing. A way of recognizing the body as a shell – opened, that has been living a timespan of days and more days of evenings and mornings of night after night. Turning into a series of years and centuries.

I shook my head as if to shake off a mare and looked about the room and all the belongings of one life cramped into a tiny space; even the room corners looked used up. By the books, the vases inhabited by silk flowers that always managed to look alive, even with a coat of dust covering it – maybe alive because it had never died in the first place. A heavy curtain with fringes at the end bustled by too much wind coming in through the crack of a window. As if the endings of some storm had just settled in the crevices of this room.

Tidying up the space I though of my own. The way I managed to clutter everything on my desk and what a chaos someone would find, if I were to just die suddenly. Mrs. Krohns body looked like a thing, an objekt just like any other in this room, as if put there but still with the intent of getting up any moment; I would await a scolding expression of having missplaced her glasses.

After I said goodbye, I left the room, the hallway, the staircase and took a breath of air, that had been cleaned throughout the nights storm. Glancing at the sun that had just risen, I thought of this death, in particular: the vulnerability that was hidden in each. And how different everyone lived – that is how each one was; a closing of its own.

I rode my bike home and till now, I have never felt so connected to someones death like I do to Mrs. Krohns.

 

Isabel Gomes

 

 

Aus: Christiane Frohmann (Hg.), Tausend Tode schreiben, Berlin: Frohmann, E-Book, 2014 bis heute
#1000tode #tod #sterben #trauer


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