Niedziela, 29 maja 2022

Sunday afternoon

Sunday, long weekend. Outside the window, a blue sky pierces the thicket of leaves. I hear a szuru buru from my bedroom – how would that be in English? – this is my husband who smoothes the walls before painting. He has just come to me to show me the tool for this project. He proudly stretched out his hand in which he was holding a strange sponge, described it and explained that it can smooth even the smallest irregularities, then added – made in Switzerland. (I knew what he meant – Switzerland, not China. I suspect that he will buy a few more such sponges the next time he visits Home Depot.) Of course – he continued – when stuck with a special glue, plaster or whatever we call it, holes and cracks will have a wonderful, smooth surface, but the walls still will be slightly rough. When our building was built, almost a hundred years ago, it was not possible to make perfectly smooth walls… And after explaining all this to his wife my husband went on, on scrubbing, smoothing, brushing the walls of our bedroom.
Meanwhile, I am sitting on the library project, a quiet Mozart comes from the Bowers and Willkins loudspeaker, I nibble on Spanish almonds from time to time. Every now and then I bump into Facebook for a minute, and Facebook memories remind me of the following note from almost three years ago. I look at the photo which prompted me to write these few words – it’s too good not to put it here. But this photo and this note, written three years ago, also reminds me of another world that has gone forever … We are painstakingly rebuilding it …

walls and ladders
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