house that lets you enter through the garden and see myself reflected in the glass An eleven year old girl gray green eyes slight build with a pale face and long dark hair Slowly I slide the door open 4
Doorbell I know straightaway that Mama is home because I can hear the curtain of music she’s drawn around herself She puts Mozart on the CD player whenever she’s had enough of the outside world Sometimes she closes the actual drapes as well making the daylight dis appear If she could she would let the world dissolve like sugar in warm tea As soon as I come inside I put my coat on a chair to the left under the stairs With both hands I close the sliding door The dining room which merges into the living room is full of things each with its own story books everywhere fossils antique glass in all different colors a small silver mirror a little traveling alarm clock that never travels any where pictures paintings and a music box The music box belongs to Bomma We haven’t had it very long When Bomma wasn’t able to stay in her own apartment in Antwerp any longer she moved to the nursing home in our town She had to get rid of nearly all her things even her own bed but she held on to the Flemish name for grandmother Bomma Hello I call out I’m on the landing Mama calls back 5
I slip between two of the staircase railings and head up to the landing My mother sits on a stool tucked behind a giant potted golden cane palm Beside her is the sewing basket and on her lap is one of Papa’s shirts She holds a light blue thread between her thumb and forefinger deftly passing it through the eye of the needle I sit beside her on the floor watching how she gently holds the fabric and sews a small hem She can do it so very neatly When she’s finished she cuts the thread Want to have a try she asks I nod taking the needle and fabric from her Easy does it she warns me I drape the shirt awkwardly over my lap I smell the scent of laundry detergent and of my father They’re woven into the fabric Bomma taught me Mama snips a length of thread from the reel and passes it to me Wet the end with saliva it’s easier to get it through the eye that way I try When it doesn’t work I lose patience But I keep trying and after a few more attempts I manage it and begin stitching My hem doesn’t look very neat at all The doorbell rings Good timing I glance at my mother and see her frightened look She stares into the distance before making an uncertain attempt to get up I’ll answer it I say quickly Thanks love that would be a great help I race down 6
Be careful on the stairs she calls out after me The bobbled glass of the front door disguises anyone behind it Who is it this time Father Christmas I smile to myself Good after noon a woman says I’m collecting for the Red Cross I turn to the little old table by the front door There’s a bunch of dried honesty flowers on top their almost see through seed pods look like coins We call it the Tally Table Papa says that long ago money was exchanged on it and coins were tested to see if they were genuine or not Now it just holds some ordinary small change in its drawer I give the lady a guilder Bye A collector I say when I return Hmm says Mama absently She’s unpicked my thread and with her perfect stitches finishes the hem She gets my summer jacket You need a new one She shows me the torn lining There’s no point mending it again Your arms stick out of the sleeves Now that autumn’s arrived the summer jackets are all on sale We’ll go into the city soon Do we have to I ask thinking about all the happy memories attached to that jacket Playing outside in the sun building huts collecting seeds from the balsam plants The lovely way the balsam pods pop open in your hand Yes says Mama This one’s had it You’ve outgrown it Goodbye jacket I think I didn’t want to outgrow you Really I didn’t I didn’t notice it just happened and my skin had to go along with it whether it wanted to or not 7
