Ina
Published:
The tea cups are what I remember. Those damned tea cups. They were glass cups sitting in metal exteriors. A disaster for the one who likes to hold their cups of tea without getting burnt. Yet there they were, year after year.
She loved to host, especially in the front room, so who can really say how many lips have pressed against those glass rims, with fingers burning. The windows were old, not double glazed but that didn’t matter that a slight breeze entered because you were never still. Boredom was a fantasy lost in that room. Boredom was impossible when tea was poured and conversation was flowing. She used to say politics, sex and art were the only things worth talking about. She very rarely swayed from that belief.
The room was lined in paintings, original oils painted by her colour blind father. She spoke with a tone that wasn’t proud but more demanding you to understand the facts, the feats. Bragging wasn’t necessary, just present the facts and let them speak louder. The books all sat on the shelf spanning the length of the wall. The books were alphabetical and without reading them individually, told the tale of a life of a woman on a quest for knowledge that held strong with her beliefs for what was interesting in life.
The buildings core would shudder as a bus or tram outside would rumble by. The walls were yellow from too much smoke. She had recently painted a wall with the original white paint, but now it stood out and she said she had to smoke more to apply the true colour for her room. She was crazy with no regard for the modern. With her fingers she ripped the filter from the cigarette and smoke it raw.
She had to pour the cups over the rug because the pot leaked but nothing as minor as that deterred her. It was not broken and didn’t damage the rug.
Ina’s accent was thicker than the smoke of the cigarettes that curled into the air. With a pointed finger she dissected modern society without fear of modern repercussions. Sitting tilted in her arm chair, leaning on her right elbow and holding the cigarette in the same hand.
‘You see, Wim, he died the right way. One night after a meal in Paris that he went to sleep. That’s how I want to go. On my 80th after a big meal, fall asleep and..’ she twirled her hand indicating the finality of her statement.
‘How old are you now?’ I asked.
’74.’
‘So we still have a few years then.’ She looked at me and smiled.
‘That is the way to go though, and he knew,’ She started again, ‘it was a five course meal by a lake. Tourists wouldn’t know it. We had five courses and Basher sat under the table, taking all that we dropped for him. That night Wim went to sleep, the dog on one side and me on the other. No hospitals, no doctors just how it should be. I couldn’t be sad, how could I?’ Her eyes were stern Her voice steady and it almost made me sad to think of the strength the Dutch believed they had to maintain. I have lived a war, she would say, and it was as if the war had destroyed all sense of romanticism within her. Life was just a frank existence that bore out in front of them. She had found her true love and lived it, and now it was over and that was that. Now, her love was the memories she held, a life that no longer existed and that was okay because it was a life she lived and it was her memories that breathed.
‘I always say to Ans, you can’t die til after I have gone’ continued Ina, laughing, ‘because there is too much stuff in this house. This has been the home of Wim’s parents and they bought it back in 39’ before the war. Well over the years it has changed but it is our house. I can’t bear to throw out something because of the memories. When I am gone the building has no meaning, but while I am here I have the memories.’ She pressed her two fingers that were holding the smoking cigarette to her temple as she said this. ‘Ya, it’s true that when these pieces are in the second hand shop someone might look at them and think, that is nice, to my furniture, but the memories live with me.’
I nodded thoughtfully at the sentiment, a brief consideration to the true unknown history of the world surrounding us.
‘Do you still speak to her?’ she asks, and I am suddenly pulled back to reality and I know of whom she is talking. I pause and in those brief moments of silence my heart sinks, yet somehow flutters. Regret is a cruel emotion because it causes you to question your own ability to make decisions. Something you thought was right was suddenly way off and you are left pedalling backwards.
Every memory grips your heart with a keen fondness to remind you of what you had. It’s a scary thing to admit you are happy, not only to yourself, but to the person that makes you happy. With her it had taken a second to fall in love and now all that remained was the memories. Ina had objects, a physicality to the substance of her memories. I had nothing. How difficult it is to exist in the world when in my mind you and I are dancing in the moonlight.
Ina always talked about the great men and women of history and what they had achieved. The words fell from her mouth with such a precise ease that told me she truly revered their accomplishments.
I would much rather go down in history unknown and in love and your smile holds a million truths but perhaps the most destructive was the one that completed me.
Writer and Photographer Alexander S.W. 