There lives an old lady that looks a bit shady
Who came to my house all alone.
One day she crept in - maybe I let her in?
I locked the front door, that's for sure.

She was awfully frail, and smelled a bit stale,
And she glared with disdain and complained.
She made me stay home so she wouldn't be alone
While she groaned at the ache in her bone.

The days dragged on but she wouldn't be gone
She's still here - as we speak - in my chair.
I could kick her out but she'd probably shout
You should hide if you're on her bad side.

I've tried "go away" but she's decided to stay
Taking over my life without strife.
I want to be free, but she lives inside me
You see, that old lady is me.

old letters  postcards  color slides
entries in diaries  drafts
of letters maybe never sent
fill boxes after boxes after boxes
left to me by my parents and their ancestors

going through them
I sort out letters  documents certificates
prayer books with scribbles on the margins
school grades  awards  old birthday wishes

of all the photographs I only keep the ones
on which I recognize the faces
those of the strangers I have never known
     and never will
I ditch
together with the many color slides
of mountains I have never climbed
     and never will
and of my parents friends whom I don‘t know
     and never will
with whom they somewhere spent good times

all these were part of my dear parents universe

in my world they mean nothing
have no significance beyond allowing me
to glimpse selected moments of the lives of those
who‘ve come before me and have gone
disappearing quietly
     into the mists of history

leaving blurred views
      as through a frosted window
about their pleasures  loves  anxieties  
catastrophies and tragedies

     enough to tease imagination
     too pale for certainties

hints from the past