Oma

My Oma was telling me something and I listened with a specific but undirected sense of seriousness. She was right, of course, but I knew something impossibly important, but she knew it, too, and she was right in everything she told me as she set the round white radishes into the flowerbed one by one. They had long, entangled, bushy plantwork on top of them. The red brick steps she sort of stood-squatted on and that I sat on were trembling. All the stone- and brickwork here outside of the house was trembling. The house itself was not. I stared and squinted hard at one of its outer wall corners, the one behind my Oma, which was in my view all the time. It stood perfectly still. It had really been built by my family? Half my mind was on the unnamed serious matter with a very vague sadness of loss. Of course she was dead, I knew that, but that wasn't it. It was the other one again, wasn't it, the one I keep dreaming of because knowing and accepting that we're over and I never even had a chance aren't enough. Thick parts of my brain still need to adjust and process it, so they secrete all this moulding jelly night after night to get rid of it. It even crept into this one, a dream about my Oma telling me something important while the humanbuilt world crumbles around the foundations of .... me. My heritage is all that's certain.