As a kid, I grew up with my parents and grandma together in our 60's home. Upstairs in my grandma's apartment, I lived in a small room. My grandma lived in the house with her mother until her death. She died 4 years ago at the age of 97. Today my mother lives alone in the house. My dad died early and we kids moved out some time ago. I have been commuting between foreign countries and my home village for a long time.
My mother and grandmother had to flee East Prussia after World War II and lost their homes. Their new, forced home in southern Germany became something very special and valuable. There they finally felt safe and protected. The two were always together. Throughout her life. Almost like twins, you rarely saw them alone. Maybe that's the explanation that nothing has changed in the apartment since her death? Has not the time yet come to change and dissipate something? Out of respect? Because of the memories? Is the courage missing?
When I visit my mother, I sleep in my grandmother's apartment in my former nursery. Being there is like a journey through time, back to my childhood. Since then, almost nothing has changed. Everything is still there. The old wallpapers from the 60s and 70s are still on the walls. The furniture is still in its usual place. For years, even hang the two blue cloths over the bath in the bathroom. The small carpet in the kitchen is missing, the traces he left behind are clearly visible. The two massive wardrobes stand like silent, immovable guards in the bedroom. My grandma's clothes and underwear are still in there. Time seems to have stopped there for me. Due to the unchanged apartment, I remember many things that I experienced there as a child and adolescent. I can still feel the presence of my grandmother there. I used to travel often but she always said: "At home it's the most beautiful." Today I often think: maybe she was right? Are those home feelings?