I see some things happening in slow motion. Why, I don't know, you'd have to explore it. Seldom is it something beautiful, often it is silly teasing of destiny. Like cup from my hand slides, my children fall from swing or ir grandma slips on ice on new Year's walk.
This does not mean, however, that it would be more time for me to do so, and to prevent this from happening as a catastrophe so slowly and oddly picturesque in front of me by courageous intervention. I am deprived of any speed even in this stretched fright second, and downright paralyzed. I only see it happen as a powerless eye witness. And if I still cringe to left, into void or pike, it is too late. Far too late.
As if it would make a difference wher it is too late or too late. It's done. Tempus is perfect. Consummate presence. And I'm just standing re like a made-up idiot.
That's how it happened to me when I wanted to throw a ball at my son's beach yesterday and slipped ring off my finger.
I saw him still flying sparkling through air, in light of sun over Rügen. I found this sight quite nicely, until thought crept in, and this time he had yes to sneak me, quite slowly, while ring flew through air, his sparkle gradually became iridescent and finally blurred with sparkle of Sun and sea In my half-blind eyes of sweat and sun milk, thought that it was not some ring that flew re, but mine.
Already I felt disturbing emptiness on my finger, as if it were finger itself, which I suddenly lacked, painlessly separated and yet noticeably absent. And I also felt that it would still hurt me very much to have lost ring. Amazingly, I thought what you can feel everything in a moment when time slows down in such a fabulous way.
Astonishingly, I also thought, now pain flows into me, pain of loss. Everything sparkled, ring, sun, sea, my after ball, which I had thrown before an eternity, hechtender son, who once wants to become a famous goalkeeper when he is big. And I did not see any more thoughts and feelings about where ring fell into sand. In last phase of his flight he took color of beach all around before he swallowed it, for ever, perhaps.
It was my grandfar's wedding ring, which my grandmor had put on his finger 82 years ago in Collegiate Church of Enger/Westfalen, on April 21, 1936. The date and its name are engraved in inner side of ring. He wore it for a lifetime, still 59 years until his death, and left him back when he died, in a casket on his desk.Ächz.
When time had finally accelerated back to normal speed, I only shrugged, I reached into emptiness and hechtete. But it was too late. Far too late. As if it would make a difference. The ring had long since sunk, somewhere on a surface of a hundred square meters of sand. And I stood re like an idiot.
I must have made a face like one who just slipped ring from finger when playing ball on Baltic beach. Which has lost something very valuable and now fully understands it.
Dad, what happened?, my son asked. I groaned.
My grandfar was a little man, a metre sixty only. This is in his passport, which was, like ring, a cigar-cutter, a matchbox with illustration of an old steam locomotive and some yellowed photos, in his small estate in casket on his desk. But I have him bigger in memory than a metre sixty. That may be because I was still almost a child when he left us. I still remember how I sat on his lap, but not because I had grown over his head.
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