When nothing really happens
I feel warmth — I haven’t felt the sun’s rays in a long time. Since November, the sky has been cloudy, a heavy grey mass that doesn’t let you think clearly. You feel like your thoughts are trapped in a single cycle — work, sleep.
Imagine a black-and-white movie. That’s what it looked like.
I look up — there isn’t a single cloud. Just pure, vast blueness. A pleasant tightness grips my chest. It reminds me of summers when I was still a child. When the seasons had clear boundaries. I recall the smell of freshly cut grass — I can’t describe it, but if I could colour it, it would be light green. That scent always soothes me. It feels good.
It’s not even ten in the morning yet, but it’s already so pleasant that I can sit outside in just a thin, pale-yellow T‑shirt. I gently push myself back and forth with my legs, the old swing creaking. Well, it’s not really old, just that the brown-painted metal has long since started to rust.
I close my eyes — Not because I want to indulge in some deep emotions. I just don’t want to look at the row of cars in front of the house. We have more parked cars than we need. Who needs three cars? And they’re all dull — white and grey. As boring as my life right now, lacking imagination. Short, meaningless thoughts appear in my head.
“What did you do?” I hear Grandpa’s voice. Not mine, but Sophie’s.
“Grandpa, come, we’re at the sea!” Sophie shouts from the pile of cut logs.
I look to my left and see them climbing over the dark brown remains of a tree. Grandpa cut down our walnut tree.
What a beautiful tree it was — tall, strong, with a grayish-brown trunk. In summer, its dense olive-green crown cast a shadow where we used to sit. Now, in its place, there’s just emptiness. A hole in the landscape.
“Why did you cut it down?” I ask. Inside, I feel annoyance.
“What could I do, everyone told me I had to,” Grandpa defends himself.
“Who’s everyone?” I don’t let it go.
“Well, Milan, Tine, and that neighbour up the street, Mirko, the one who lives in that pale yellow house at the beginning of the street,” he starts listing.
“A bunch of tree experts,” I tease.
“Look, look, a fly!” Sophie shouts, interrupting us.
We turn to her, both relieved. The conversation would have surely turned into an argument. Not a classic fight, but one of those exchanges of heavy words — insults.
It rips my ears, when Sophie gets yet another coughing attack.
“Spit it out!” is Grandpa trying to show her how to get rid of the slimy white blob that has formed in her mouth from coughing.
We’re still sick. For the second time this year. I don’t even know where we got infected, because we don’t go anywhere. We spend our days, mostly alone, in that red house that belongs to Sophie’s father. That’s why it annoys me even more when someone sick comes over and infects us. Every damn cold lasts at least two weeks. This one too.
As I remember, It was Wednesday when my throat started to tickle.
“Eh, my throat has been sore since Monday,” Aaron said, almost proudly, as if it were a competition.
Of course, I got pissed off. He had been walking around for three days, contagious, kissing and cuddling us until we both got sick. He got away only with a sore throat. And me? I’ve been worried for seven days now, every time Sophie has a coughing fit — What if it turns into bronchitis? I keep checking her throat to see if the redness has turned into white bacterial patches.
“Look at the birds,” I hear Grandpa talking to Sophie. She is leaning on her chestnut-brown log.
“Look at that black one,” Sophie shouts excitedly. “That’s a blackbird.”
She’s sitting on her log, which she has named Mama Horse. Of course, she’s not thinking of a real horse. She means a unicorn. A rainbow-colored unicorn with glitter in its mane. Since carnival, she’s been obsessed with unicorns.
Her bright, colourful dress already has stains of every possible colour on it, but she still wears it every day. Thank God, I think, at least it’s better than the outfit she latched onto when we first arrived at Grandma’s.
She found my Red Riding Hood costume in my old closet. The one I wore fifteen years ago. Sexy Red Riding Hood, I mean. She looked hilarious. The tiny bust cups were hanging off her. Grandpa was enthusiastically cheering, “Wow, this dress is really great! Who bought it for you?” — Like two goofies.
“Take a look at this bike, it’s on sale now!” my mom suddenly appears from around the corner with her phone in hand. She shoves a picture in my face — of course, it’s a pink bike. For Sophie!
“Yeah, okay,” I say disinterestedly. She always shows me ads from some unknown online stores — cheap plastic junk. I’ve already decided I won’t buy her a pink bike. Even though I know it’s her favorite color.
I’ll buy a black BMX. I’ve already made up my mind.
“Grandma, Grandma!” Sophie runs over.
“Let’s paint!” she’s excited.
In a little jar, there are still some chalks left from last summer. Tea left them here for Sophie. Tea is my childhood friend, and she now has two little boys, the same age as Sophie.
“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got,” says Grandma, kneeling to the ground.
“Three white ones, red, green, and a tiny piece of blue.”
“I’m drawing a rainbow!” Sophie sits down on the pavement.
The colors match the atmosphere. Nature is still asleep, colors are appearing, but they are pale. Like white chalk on gray pavement. Yeah, it’s only March. Summer is still far away. Even these violets — they’re supposed to be blue, but barely.
My headache is getting stronger. I’m about to get my period, and for the past four months, the hormonal swings have been brutal. I bleed so much I need at least two pads at a time. And this damn headache.
The sound of a motor breaks the silence.
“The postman,” my mom says.
Sophie flinches, but only for a second.
“Let’s play something else,” she suggests.
“Ludo or dominos?”
“Everything, I want to play everything!” Sofie exclaims.
“Okay, bring us dominos and Ludo,” Grandma turns to me.
I move lazily, like I’m ninety years old. Since when have I let myself go like this? I really need to lose some weight.
I go into the house to get the games.
Through the window, I see my mother in her sweater. The bright yellow color stands out. Wow, I think, it’s beautiful. I gave her that sweater because it was too small for me. I took an XS. Of course, it didn’t fit — I knew that when I bought it alreadya.
“Which game first?” I ask when I return.
“Ludo!” Sophie says.
“With the little figures. I’ll be red!” she shouts.
“Okay,” Grandma nods. “I’ll be yellow.”
Sofie rolls the dice. “One, two, four…” she counts the dots, figuring out how many spaces she can move.
I close my eyes and let the sun warm my face. Just for a second, I let myself relax and not think about her. Usually, my head is full of worries about my daughter.
“Mom, Mom, I won again!” Sophie runs up to me — she always has to win.
I look at her. She’s so small.
She looks at me with her brown-green eyes, waiting for my reaction.
“Bravo, Sophie,” I say.
She shyly scrunches up her face and smiles. She tilts her head to the side and twists her hips. Then she runs back to Grandma to play another round.
I can never quite catch the color of her eyes, I think. They are brown-green — hazel. The kind usually inherited from mixed parents. The kind most common in the regions where north and south meet.
I watch her — she’s so tiny.
I close my eyes again. I can hear them counting.
Sophie is getting better with numbers. In both languages, I think to myself. She speaks two languages.
That thought unsettles me. A wave of anxiety creeps in.
She needs to know at least one language perfectly — for school. What if this messes her up?
She’s so small. Tiny. Alone. She has no other children to play with, no brothers, sisters, cousins.
Tears well up in my eyes, from sudden feeling of sadness.
I have to help her more. I have to be there for her. I can’t let myself sink into this laziness.
I can do better.
