Catholic convent in Florence, palm trees and a guy smoking outside, a laugh his eyes - Falling in love with that boy who looks like the girl of my lovers dreams. A blondie guy in a girls lap where the chemistry is pulpable.
On Sunday they buried my grandfather. It was a Swiss matter, Italian marble and the white clear light of early summer days in the mountains. They had just planted the cypresses to function as a small, rather pathetic ornament to the pathway leading up behind the church (maybe celebrating its 800th year today), just next to the parking lot of that electrician Salmina, whom my father used to fight so much with.I could only remember one other funeral, my uncle Martin’s, a true Zuriquois, witha well-kept white round-beard, artist and painter, and all the Swiss bourgeoisiecoming to look at us. I remember talking to Uncle Houusi, about how stupid it was that they wanted to stare at grandpa while he wasn’t even living anymore as I showed him how well I could tip-toe on the long granite stripe cutting contrast against the gleaming blank concrete with its apathetic monochrome shadow. I equilibrated nonchalantly and looked quite pretty in my mind. We went on to play Tennis with Caroline, since I was so bored between the cars and the black dresses. My much-hated blue-white checkered crepe dress, that you had to awkwardly wind and bind every time to wear, is true because it later showed its best on a Polaroid my mother took. She had dressed up her manikin tastefully - until today she calls me Baba, the Hungarian word for babydoll. The burial changed my father - his flight from this fauvist feeling of loss he couldnever get over. And he never came out to his father.