23/04/2026
I came back upstairs from the laundry room. A scent so pleasant and welcoming as rarely before in this apartment hit me. During my visit downstairs my senses had seized the opportunity to be surprised at what I already knew was up there and - now - here I stood in my hallway, keys in hand in a gingham dress, almost teary eyed as a scent apparently full of grief mixed with comfort hit me.
There's something about the sight of all the potted plants being placed on the livingroom table which speaks to me. My mind tries to connect it to childhood memories of my mom cleaning.
I have cleaned this apartment before. I have taken care of my sick kids here a dozen times already. I once made cardamon buns in this home.
But this scent of nostalgia was not as distant as nostalgia usually is. It was merely traced back to a time, -not long ago- when I had not all but forgot how to go all in into the embodiment of myself, like a mother, maiden, crone,.. all at once.
The gingham dress, sleeping angels, homemade buns and plants bunched up on the table. The fuel of my dreams intertwined with my now. This now. This version of my life.
A sliver of time, the life I re-inaugurated my artistry with 19 moons ago vaguely felt in reach of me again.
Out of all the days I have been a mother, today was probably my favourite, my most in tune, my least... stolen. All meanwhile in my inbox lies messages about invitations to the plethora of other things that excitingly encompass "me".
Knowing very well this is but an exception in my new reality, I hurt.
