My feet mourn different to the rest of the body. They become cold in summer and hot in the night. They hurt after two steps and don’t want to stop walking after a thousand. Sometimes their way of mourning reminds me of my knees. Also full of sorrow, full of holes and spots where the skin was hurt so often that it became numb. This is all not true for my heart and also not for my pinky finger, as well as for my right ear that likes these high pitch noises, which occur not only when everything is silent but even more often when two words collide and would make it rain, if they were clouds. On the contrary the left ear prefers the dull drum noises coming from the inside of me that make me wonder if there once was a time when I was a cave. No matter if this is the case or not I am pretty sure that somewhere between my lung and my liver, more to the left than the right part of the ribcage, one would find a boat, made of wood from a forrest far away.
A forrest where once I sat with my grandfather who will never remind me of my father.
Death still feels strange to my body. Though all parts of me, even the smallest one like the mole on my upper lip or five of my eyelashes think of it at least fourteen times a day. It follows me to the supermarket, it whispers in my ear at 2 in the morning, it takes the first sip of my morning coffee. Go away, I try to say, but instead i clinch to it, asking, mumbling, hysterically screaming that I want to understand. Death doesn’t seem to care. Maybe that is why my body denies it to feel at home. Not even between my shoulders, where I hardly ever look for it.
Nonetheless it would not be true to say that I and my body have no feeling towards death. In fact we have a lot of them. We both agree that it feels like a distant cousin that is even more horrible than all the stories we heard about him. It feels like a bowl of cereal for lunch. It feels like curtains outside the window that you can’t open or the word musica in the middle of a german sentence. It feels familiar but far away. It tries to come close but makes you run away. It feels like writing in another language that I know good enough to communicate but not good enough to write texts without any mistake. It feels like all the mistakes. All of them at once.
It feels like this.
My feet agree. They are cold again. My elbows hurt. My eyes are itchy. My vertebrae sing a lullaby about a tree, about a deer, about three sailors far away from sea who sit in a bar in a town that I have never been to but expect to smell like cooked potatoes.
(Sometimes I really wish my body would teach me how to mourn.)