Peter Lichtlein

BAM! and off I run. Once I’m running you can’t stop me. No one can. I’m big and strong and I know things. I know exactly where I want to go. Down the corridors, down the steps, across the playground, through the gate, here I’m still running but in the streets I’m the wind. The dust doesn’t bother me. The dogs don’t bother me. Nor do the cars or the pigeons or the houses that stand in front of the sky and look as if they’re still growing taller. I know there are people here, but I don’t see them, and the people don’t see me, and soon they won’t be there any more. But it’s only when the houses behind me look like tiny pebbles that I slow down. And then I drop onto the grass and lie on my back, and the Earth’s heart is beating under me.

When I’m calm again, I stand up. Now I can walk and I don’t have to keep looking back. Not far now. Past the fences, across the old sewage pipe I used to be able to crawl through, and on through the bushes and sharp reeds, and then I can already see the trees and the pool, and it’s funny: although I know everything out here is continually growing and breaking and blossoming and dying, everything looks exactly the same as last time.

The pool is my friend. Only no one knows. I don’t want anyone to know. It’s a secret. I’m a secret. It’s better if no one knows me. The earth all around is soft and dark and wet. But I’ve got a trick: I pull out a few handfuls of reeds and spread them on the earth. That’s my bed.

My mother’s forbidden me to go to the pool. But I won’t let her forbid me. I come here a lot. No one disturbs me here, and I can just sit and look and think, or not look and not think, whichever I want. My mother doesn’t understand that.

My mother is beautiful. She has a big face and big hands. She cut up a rabbit in the bathtub once. Its blood was black and, although I couldn’t help thinking about its eyes, its meat tasted good. My mother likes talking about food. And then I talk about it, too, because I know she likes it. We sit at the table and talk about the bread. We say that you can scratch the burnt bits off the crust with a knife and it’s nice and soft inside. We talk about the meat, as well. We say that the meat used to belong to an animal, and will never completely belong to us. If for once we’re not talking about food, my mother says other things, too.

My mother says:

What have you done to your hands?

Go to sleep now.

Three angels are sitting on the window ledge. The first has sleep in his pocket. The second, happiness. And the third watches over the other two.