rebecca-wolff Rebecca Wolff

Is about life.

Histoire courte Déconseillé aux moins de 13 ans. © own work

Histoire courte
1.5mille VUES
temps de lecture
AA Partager

Part 1.

It's been a long time. It felt like a hundred years had passed and I was an old woman in my late seventies, a life behind me, a lot of experience and I had lost him. Him, the love of my life. It was my fault. His last kiss, his cool blue-grey eyes, the proud expression I had never forgotten and his sincerely honest smile. I could still feel his scratchy dark blond stubble on my cheeks when he kissed me. Why had I been so stupid. But I had been naïve, a young woman with a girl's knowledge, different desires and not always been able to acknowledge his love, and that had upset him. I stared out the window, lost in thought. A glass of water with a coffee in front of me on the glass table in the restaurant, the plum cake that I hadn't even touched and the view of the lake that lay in front of me, entwined in the fog. People around me were eating, some drinking coffee like me, elegant elderly ladies and their husbands, young people, children, giggling teenagers, families. The room was filled with voices and the air was very warm, although the waiter had politely opened a window a few minutes earlier when a young man had snapped at him about it. My eyes hadn't failed to notice the powerful way, the kind of arrogance that had always made me angry as a young woman and I had turned away without understanding. Today I saw through it. Arrogance was possessed by those people who considered themselves to be something better, but they actually knew deep down in their hearts that they were very insecure. It was a restaurant where you had to book in advance, the restaurant for people who had a lot of money, saw themselves as something better, provocative young women, men hoping for power. Then I suddenly had a simple idea. It was so easy. Why didn't I think of that sooner? I searched in my purse. Then a young tender female voice asked; "Can you tilt the window behind you. It's really warm in here, if you understand...?" I smiled cautiously, ignoring the young woman and not responding to her bold-looking question. I looked into my old-fashioned handbag. A gift from Danny, my love at the time. You don't normally address older women on a first name basis. Also, it was very cold outside and I didn't want to catch a cold draft. It was already the end of November and a stiff neck was just what I needed for my already stiff old limbs. I haven't been bothered by something like that for a long time. The young people didn't have any sense anymore anyway. All they had on their minds were their mobile phones, the discotheques and, above all, themselves. Selfishness had become fashionable. audacity everyday. The best way to protect yourself from the new virtue of naivety was cleverness and simple humor. The world had changed, and so had the people. It was nothing like it used to be. Honesty had gone out of fashion. Anyone who had decency and high morals was considered stupid, "uncool" and people made fun of it in the truest sense of the word, although they knew full well that envy had made their lives hell for a long time. It was the meaning of things, everything had changed in this world. There was almost no more honesty and love. There was almost only envy and hate, deceit and power and the fact that people had everything in abundance made them even more greedy, money had become the future today. Mind, love, morals and honesty were history. People who had morals and knew what they wanted were considered incorrect, complicated, handicapped or crazy in the eyes of others. I didn't care what immoral people thought of me. I knew what they said about me. "The crazy old woman." "The old pincers." "The beast." If only they could talk. Everyone got what they deserved. Whoever gave out bad got it back more than five times, whoever gave out good sincerely got it back more than he could admit. The young woman whispered again; "Do you hear me?" I finally looked up. "I think you're blind. There's a young man outside the door and he's been looking at you like you're an angel. Don't you like it when a young man looks at you so intently? You can get some fresh air there catch. Do you understand that?" The provocative woman looked at the door. First she looked me up and down condescendingly then she nodded a little too energetically. "Ok-aaaay," she said resolutely, pouting. She smiled with her cold light blue, doll-like eyes and batted her eyelashes briefly, then turned away. "Then I'll go. Oh," she turned around again. "Didn't want to, uh, disturb you. Goodbye," she waved briefly with spread fingers and left the room with a provocative bobbing gait. Several young men turned to her attentively. Yes, I thought, today's youth. I finally discovered my notebook in my handbag, in which I usually made everyday notes. Anyone who wrote or made music could also let out their hidden deep feelings of passion and also sadness, anger and love.

Danny, I wrote inside. I decided that it would now be my diary. I would now have to put an end to Danny, my past. my deep sadness They were old stained wounds and I decided that now they would only exist as scars on my core, my soul. No more than wounds.

Danny .

It was finally spring. The seed was already in the fields. The forest suddenly turned green and the leaves now covered almost all the trees of Lindenhalde in my home town of Bavaria. My family's farm. In the middle of the country. Summer came and I met the nice, extraordinarily elegant young man. He helped us with the harvest. A hardworking gardener. He had never been there before and before the last harvest was over he disappeared again as if my hopes had gone with him. My hope that belonged to him. Not even the most attractive admirers of the young men from the village who watched me with interest had this hope. Even if everyone saw it, I knew not to admit my feelings. I had fallen in love with this unusually handsome harvest hand. I left my homeland not even seventeen years old and, as the only farmer's child in my family, began studying in Munich. The other siblings stayed at home. They would inherit my family's farm one day, and the girls would marry and raise children of their own. It was not yet ready for a decision. They were all children themselves. I the eldest. Veterinary medicine was extremely demanding and disinterest in the study increased more and more. Every day I became sadder. Courage released me. I didn't know what I was missing. At night I dreamed of Lindenhalde, the extraordinary young man. From the summer and the smell of resin in the woods, from my family and became even sadder. The following spring, Mom came to visit for the first time. She brought me her homemade apple pie. Her love cheered me up a little. We talked for a long time. Towards evening I took her back to the train station. She would take the train back and dad would pick her up tonight. How I missed home. "Why are your grades so bad?" Mom had predicted in her sympathetic, sternly maternal way, I mused as I headed back to the dorm. The birds were chirping and the smell of spring somehow lifted the mood. "I do not know." She knew me and had given me a knowing look. "Do you miss someone? Have you fallen in love?" "What do you mean?" I looked at her warily. Did she know that I missed Danny so much and missed the time he was there more and more every day. The time seemed to me as if it had never happened and his blue-grey expressive eyes were almost so distant in my memory as if they had never existed. "Admit it, Angela, my child. Danny has been very nice to you." "Yes," and the tears had finally flowed and sadness and reality had finally taken hold of me. That spring I had held Danny's letter in my hands.

Dear Angela, do you remember me? We were both at the harvest in Lindenhalde and I had to laugh so much when you said that I look like a clown in the hat in front of the applauding audience and I said look at me, keep looking at me and then you will also recognize that I am not a clown am. You are an exceptionally nice young lady. If you like we can meet tomorrow in Munich in the Ludwigsvorstadt. I'll wait for you at the train station. I also brought you something and the famous delicious apple pie from your mother. She sends you her best regards. In the future I will often help with the harvests in Lindenhalde. We'll talk later. I'm really looking forward to tomorrow and I hope you share in my joy.

your Danny

We met and in the fall of the same year I left Munich and went back to Lindenhalde and gave up my studies because of the bad grades given by the professors. Danny and I were together for sixteen years and took over Lindenhalde due to my parents' decrepitude before a heavy blow of fate separated Danny and I forever. Autumn was over. November came and with November my Danny went too. By spring I had already seen the remarkable pallor on his face and by the end of October he had been found passed out splitting wood in the forest. The doctor diagnosed him with a tumor. The disease was already advanced and no longer curable. In November he breathed his life out.

For a long time I looked out of the window and at the lake where the street lights were on in the distance of Constance. It was already dark and the elegantly dressed people were now sitting in the restaurant. couples, elderly couple. lovers. I only noticed her now. I had to accept that Danny was dead. It wasn't my fault. I had been too naïve to realize that the morbid pallor was not a sign of health. The only thing Danny left me was countless beautiful happy and interesting memories. Now I lived with my daughter Elisa and ran my grandson's sewing company with her near Mainau on Lake Constance. Accept, let go and move on, I had finally understood it, I had to. Don't stop, don't give up but keep going even if I fall down again. Life, as hard as it was, went on. That was the meaning of life, it went on.

27 Avril 2022 17:06:03 0 Rapport Incorporer Suivre l’histoire
La fin

A propos de l’auteur

Rebecca Wolff Rebecca Wolff ist auf der schwäbischen Alb geboren, wohnhaft im Kreis Stuttgart. Schreiben ist ihr Hobby. Es ist wunderbar in die Welt des Schreibens einzutauchen und auch zu lesen. Sie denkt gerne über den Sinn des Lebens nach, hinterfragt auch vieles. Ihre eBooks beschreiben meistens das Leben.

Commentez quelque chose

Il n’y a aucun commentaire pour le moment. Soyez le premier à donner votre avis!