As If (I)
As if you just went outside to the grocery store some minutes ago, to get some fresh milk. Like you’re planning to cook for us, the most delicious Hungarian soup with sweet pepper I will ever taste, having the china ready on the table for us to sit down. You’d play the piano together with me afterwards, just as you taught me years ago. We would play four-handed and get our hands knotted and laugh all the time, and you would get us some coffee and tea and we would sit on the balcony in the late summer sun and care for your roses, your most favourite flowers in the whole world.
Just as we did day by day since I was born, year after year, until I grew older and had to move for studies and there were hundreds of kilometres between us. But if you ever had somthing to call your home, it stays the same everytime you get there, and you never visit, you’re just there again as if you never left and you take the cups from the cupboard to help with the tea, because you know every little thing in this house and its place. And nothing ever changes and we have soup and chat about your roses and sit in the late summer sun and play the piano together.
The china is still there, on top of the table in the living room next to the piano, where I learned playing so many years ago. The peppers hang drying in your kitchen, every photo still has its place where it always was. It’s as if you went outside just to buy some things for dinner, and I sit on your balcony in the late summer sun and wait for you to come back.
[Canon AE-1 Program / 50mm 1:1,8 / Agfa APX ISO 100]