The gesture (short story)

After missing the 3.00 pm ferry from Harlingen to Terschelling by only a few minutes, I ensconced myself in a chair in the restaurant overlooking the quay. It was almost the last day of the year.

I watched the ferry I should have been on disappear in the fog and, knowing that I had to wait for the fast one that wasn’t due for another few hours, I decided to order some tomato soup as an excuse for me being there. This hour of the day there weren’t many people in the restaurant, just a grumpy couple of young waitresses, both of them wanting to get the rest of the day off, and a waiter, who looked as if he was ready to commit homicide.

For several times he inspected his watch. He rose his eyebrows, for me, a customer, being there on this unusual hour, realized his colleges were still arguing, sighed and reluctantly took my order, hating his job. He went to the kitchen and stayed away for more than 20 minutes. Meanwhile I took the book I had purchased earlier that day out of my bag.
As I was reading the promising cover, I didn’t notice that an elderly couple had entered and taken seats at the table nearest to mine; not until I had opened the book and sniffed up the smell of ink, that is.

I do that sometimes, sniffing up the scent of a new book. I even had my eyes closed, and when I opened them I realized the woman had seen me doing it. Her look was that of a frozen canary.

Embarrassed because she had found out about my secret pleasure I started reading, but every now and then I took a glimpse at the couple. They had put their coats over an empty chair and both stared in a different direction.

She was about sixty, and she obviously had had a life of disappointments. Her mouth was the opposite of a smiley, her face had deep rivers of grieve.
I could only see the man’s neck, as he had halfway turned his back at her and explored the foggy sky above the water of the harbour with great interest, although there was nothing to see. He had a stubborn kind of neck that would not turn his head around. No matter what.
It was getting dark. They said nothing. They were married, they wore the same golden rings that had lost their shine.

The soup was brought, I paid the waiter and waited patiently for my change that had to come from deep out of his wallet. Then he turned to the woman and did that thing with his eyebrows again, this time in an asking manner.
“Yes?” he said demandingly.
“Coffee, please,” she replied with a dark brown voice. “Just coffee. No sugar for him. Three lumps for me.”

Her husband hawked but then stayed silent. A few moments later their cups of coffee were sort of thrown on the table by the waiter, and no need to say he could forget about a tip. Again.
An hour went by. Two hours went by. Outside it was totally dark, the gloomy sound of the foghorn was all we heard, that and the noise of pots and pans in the kitchen. Other people started to come in, filling the room with more noises and the smell of wet coats. The man and the woman remained silent.

We could hear the fast ferry entering port. Most people arose, but like the couple that was in no hurry and had no luggage with them, I stayed put, me to do some more reading, as the vessel had to disembark first. Not that I liked the book, it was in fact rather disappointing and I soon looked away again.

Then I saw her right-hand. She placed it on the softly trembling left hand of her husband and he didn’t remove his, as I had expected him to do. This unexpected gesture, implying a sort of tenderness, kept me looking, and all of a sudden her eyes met mine. I was too late to look away and now, again, we shared a secret.

I smiled, she smiled back. Then he briskly stood up, took his coat and walked out of the restaurant. She looked all frozen again and followed him outside. They sort of vanished in opposite direction of the ferry.

I put the book in my bag, waited a bit until I was sure it was about time to go on board and left the restaurant. Outside I saw one of the two waitresses and the waiter. Both apparently had the night of and they had put their arms around each other, laughing quite happily. He looked a lot nicer now.
When I stepped on board, just in time, I suddenly realized you can’t judge a book by looking at its cover.

( I published this story on Helium some years ago.)

Stranded on a sand bank

He touches my hand and then his book,
thinking of other things I guess
than of my hand and of his book,
his eyes drifting away. ‘t is fine,
as long as I am at his side, why speak.
why say what’s obvious, why look?

Our boat has stranded on a bank,
we should get dressed maybe,
we need to catch the tide.
I want to feel his skin on mine.
I see the water in the setting sun,
the water’s bleak. Goodbye has just begun.

This is not a cow

My granddaughter, whose age is
12 months, a fortnight and a day,
just got a cardboard book.

She takes a look at the picture of a cow,
drawn without a love for animals
in too bright colours, hasty lines
that don’t seem to feel right how
real creatures breathe and live.
“Where is the cow?” I ask her anyway.

She looks at me
the way one does
when grandmothers
ask such dumb stuff.

She thinks and ponders,
points her finger at the window,
in the direction where the farmlands are.

She wonders much but won’t be fooled.
Some books might be just good enough,
but not as good as others.

Goodbye for now

Lectori Salutem (Hi all)

An eye problem (leaking of both retina’s now) that I have been having for a long time, and that seemed to get better, suddenly got worse and makes it impossible for me to be online for a while, but if the eyedoc cures it, as I hope, I’ll be back, not sure when that will be though.

I am very grateful for all your comments, support and friendship, and I am glad I began this English adventure. And maybe it is not over.

Hopefully till soon! It has been awesome! Love, hugs and xx!

Ina

Father

Waves come rolling, gulls are unaware of me.
This beach has everything to remember
and looking for you, I find you right there.

The colour of your eyes, that is the sea.
I feel no cold although it is November.
And besides: I am your child. I don’t go anywhere.

You lifted me in your strong arms one day,
that is the best part that will linger on,
the image of you as my father, then.

I hear the sea that tells me not to stay,
using your voice, although you are long gone
from when alive and still a healthy man.

I should move on and know the waves don’t care
that I feel better when they treat me nice
instead of ordering me that I must go.

But I’m your child, I won’t go anywhere
because the sea reminds me of your eyes
and I do miss your arms around me so.

Conform the rules of love

Over cups of coffee and between flaws of life
you reached for my hand in the café.

We didn’t say much, just the needed remarks,
an exchange of dull information.

Then your eyes told me more than a phone call would do;
a lonely, troubled soul traveling.

I would have made love to you there and then.
What kept me from doing so, was conformation.

When emptied the cups, going back to our lives
you forgot it of course, as I should do too.

But the touch of your hand I shall never forget.
In my next life I’ll be non conformist for you.

A word to try out!

say nothing more

when nothing matters more than arms around you,
say nothing more and let your body do the talking.
I want to feel as much as possible of your embrace.
words will come later
now nothing matters more than arms around us.
say nothing more.

joy

let my time be filled with smallest joy
the smell of sand and the colours of water,
sound of mist and heavy clouds floating,
let my wonder be my greatest joy.

I made the photo from the dune behind our house. The view is one of my fav. joys 

royal blue sea

this royal blue sea
on an eve to remember
imagination

we have swum together
when darkness set in
and the shore left behind

this royal blue sea
in our imagination
the colour it was

paying attention

You say it in words that matter
but my ears just hear music.
I should listen better
when you say f*ck off.