Hearts wrapped in cloth

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It sounds like a joke, two Turks and a Kurd in our German class replaced by two Croatian construction workers and an Afghan refugee, but it’s no joke really when we go around the class and say where we’re from, and have to wonder what they think when we say we’re aus den USA.

I lie in bed at night thinking, wishing I couldn’t, but like other things we sometimes wish for, it gets farther away the more you wish for it. I count backwards in English, in Deutsch, thinking about nothing, The Tell-Tale Heart, the sound of the clock in our room, a heart wrapped in cloth.

If a clock stops telling time does it cease to be a clock?

In the kitchen earlier I realised I was killing time cleaning up, prepping, doing everything imaginable for the meal, when all I was doing was brining chicken breasts, pan-roasting potatoes, preparing a salad.

How unfulfilled, middle-aged men who fancy themselves brilliant become irascible the more time they spend alone, the more others try to break down the crust that forms around them.

Charlotte writes her first story, and her spelling is still first grade level even though we’ve started second grade, has that Winnie the Pooh quality where the letters are backwards or flipped, but is so proud of her story, how she started writing up the sides of the page when she ran out of room, I offer to type it for her so we can email it to our family back home. What they must think of us, Afghan refugees, I don’t know.

Our German teacher makes a joke in Deutsch, the first time I really understand a complete thought all in German I think, about the English phrase “To go” they say here in Germany but have made it one word, just togo — so you can say you want your coffee togo and they get it, rather than ‘mitnehmen,‘ but Togo is also the name of a country in Africa, so if you’re really anal it sounds like you’re asking for an African coffee.

They don’t worry about the kids here as much, or arguably enough. We see them running around unattended to school and back, taking the train by themselves. At the zoo, Bernd’s daughter-in-law just writes her cell number on the inside of her kids’ wrists in case they get split up, and does the same for our kids, who don’t want to be left out. And the numbers are European, where the ones look like sevens, and I think darkly it looks like prison camp tattoos, the ink on the inside of their wrists. But Bernd, a former project manager, has announced our plan in case we get separated because he’s thought it through, repeats it to ensure comprehension, has a logic that’s threaded through all thoughts and moments, even the plan later to get drunk for his birthday seems well cared for.

I lie in bed thinking about John, who slept in this same bed, how he and my mom wound up here in this small, German village: mom says they just went from town to town without any real plans, sampling wine and eating. John would say they just came from such-and-such a place, where they claim to have the best wine in the region: and this would prompt the townspeople to get out their wine and say well, try this…and so on, to the next town.

Alone in the kitchen with the refrigerator photos askew, some of them upside down falling out of their seats — and behind me in German class out the window the teacher points to a red squirrel digging by a grave marker of someone born and died in the 1800s, a name that means nothing to me, but it’s all I have to think about in the dead of the night with a clock that won’t tell time, that sounds like my heart as the bed springs shift with each beat, through something thick used to hide or protect it.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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12 Responses to Hearts wrapped in cloth

  1. ksbeth says:

    and it makes me think about what the afghan, the kurd, the turks and the croats think about at night. insomnia is a universal language. and the heartbeats all pulse to the same tune.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. rossmurray1 says:

    Don’t go all Jack Torrence over there, man.
    Here’s what I wrote the other night for a piece I’ve since abandoned:
    “I like it when I wake up and the clock reads ‘3:50,’ only I’m so sleepy I don’t see the colon, so instead it looks like ‘350,’ and I fall back to sleep imagining my room is a giant oven and I’m slowly roasting to a golden brown.”
    True story. So maybe when we’re lying awake across oceans in different time zones, we should just text each other.

    Like

    • pinklightsabre says:

      That’s a name I haven’t thought of in some time, thanks for the image. I mean, THANKS. Yeah, absolutely zero correlation to my life. None, whatever. I just wiggled my finger to see if it still can talk, and a gurgly voice bubbled up. I think 350 is 200 C here. Or, 1400 – PM that is.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. walt walker says:

    Great last paragraph. I like the 5th too. You know, the last few months with the move and the problems with that, as well as this and the other, took me and the missus just about to the brink. She kind of reached out a little while I was grabbing the bush half way down the cliff face and stopped me before I found the bottom, but now that my feet are (somewhat) more firmly planted, I feel as though now it’s me yelling ‘grab my hand’ like Schwarzenneger.

    Like

    • pinklightsabre says:

      I’m sorry to hear about the troubles you guys have had, you’ve eluded to, in the move. It’s really hard on families, especially as you get older, I think. I hope in the grand scheme of things it was a good move, physically and figuratively. I’m betting it was. Glad you enjoyed the post. I think I wrote it in 25 minutes, hurrying in the morning before we were set to leave for a pig museum in Stuttgart, but got waylaid from that, never went, and kind of went back to bed, or tried to.

      Like

  4. kelly says:

    Good to read your thoughts Bill! Miss you guys. If it makes you feel any better (or worse!) the clock in your pub room also doesn’t tell time – I always forget to wind it 😉.

    Like

    • pinklightsabre says:

      Yeah, clocks are like that. I wish I could leave myself unwound, if I could find the key that keeps turning me. Good to hear from you and we miss you too Kell.

      Like

  5. byebyebeer says:

    I remember my husband and I once pretending the cat wrote “cat fud” on our shopping list. Not sure which one of us did it, but of course there was a backwards letter in there. This was before kids and so it delighted me to learn kids actually do this. Then came first grade and worry despite reassurance by the teacher that it’s perfectly normal to reverse letters. And now our youngest is creeping into second and still the b’s look like d’s. But they’re adorable and, oh, those stories.

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    • pinklightsabre says:

      I recall a “Cat Fud” phrase like that from a Gary Larson cartoon or something, I like it. It’s all about the phonetics I guess, and sounding it out. It’s hard for me to look at those inverted letters though and not go tweaky, but it is terribly cute, you’re right. I almost just wrote terribly cut, terribly cuud.

      Liked by 1 person

      • byebyebeer says:

        Yes! I think that’s where we got the idea. Every time I catch myself acting crazy (rarely of course) I think of the one where the shrink writes “just plain nuts” on his notepad. Oh Gary Larson was the best.

        Liked by 1 person

      • pinklightsabre says:

        He’s from Tacoma, about 30 minutes south of Seattle or so, same as Neko Case I think. And very prolific, a great inspiration. A twisted POV many can relate to.

        Liked by 1 person

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