D. (dalaruan) wrote,

dies irae

... und die Kälte der Wälder
Wird in mir bis zu meinem Absterben sein.

Bertolt Brecht, Vom armen B.B.

This I inherited from her, and from her father: the dark eyes. The stiff upper lip, the Prussian countenance, the emotional locked-in syndrome. The toughness, the discipline, hart wie Kruppstahl. The inner rage, the choked bitterness. To act cool-headed in times of catastrophe & chaos.

When I try to remember her I saw her only relax when she felt unobserved. In good times humming, in bad times with the exhausted face caused by chronic diseases she never revealed to others. People admired her factual judgement and often sought her advice. She commanded respect, but not love. She was unable to caress, unable to take someone in her arms. She never cried in front of others, she laughed rarely. 

I see the dead ends in which she got lost. I try to avoid them. With more or less success.

my mother ca 1965
Tags: dedication, me, war

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