"Granny, when you die?" Shortly after the stern woman mother had separated from her husband and we had returned to B, she took a job at a temp agency. She earned more bad than good and has long been on the road, so I went to school with my grandparents.
The afternoon lasted forever. The mountain-high living room cabinet hid treasures from the adult world. An unadorned music box, which I always raised her to listen to her only song. A Swiss Army knife that I could not touch, the magical red handle, but I secretly touched yet. Records. A broken camera. An old Filofax to which we said then still time planner.
Occasionally, my grandmother made me look into the Holy of Holies: her jewelry box. It hosted gold jewelry, gems, pearls and huge wattled, at least for a king. I stopped every time the mouth open. "You inherit everything when I'm dead," said my grandmother. That was a mistake. "Granny, when you die?" Asked I then again and again. During the meal, when I came the next day from school, during our walk, after our walk for weeks and months. My grandmother smiled and said nothing, knowing that I meant like all children, and finite time yet. "Granny, when you die now?"
My grandmother died in my favorite month, November. In the chapel, we cried, and afterwards there was Streußelkuchen.
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