Grief

Running up the stairs, straight through the always open door. Jumping next to her on the sofa, seeing her smile because of me being there like so many Saturday evenings of my life. She smells like flowers, her hair is grey since I can remember and now wet after a bath. It is Saturday. Bath day. She gets up to make some cheese sandwich for me like always. So tasty I remember it now, 30 years later, as if it was yesterday.

I am switching the channel. She will be back in some minutes. Cheese sandwich. Saturday. Peter Steiners Theaterstadl.

And my grandma Lisa. RIP. We will meet again.