Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:


Snow has fallen, enough to go sledding on a small hill in a nearby park (to give it a try. We don’t ask our baby: Do you want to go sledding? We say: We want to go sledding. It’s always like that. We never ask him: Do you want to do this or that? We only say: We’re doing this or that. This is how it goes and that is how it goes. We don’t ever need his consent in order to do something. We know when we can do what — usually. We have a good sense for this, coming from nowhere. Our baby does not need to trust us. What is that supposed to be: trust? A crooked word from a later time, from the time of doubt. If at the later time, the time of doubt, we manage to get by without trust, we think, we will have made it. But that has nothing to do with sledding, but only with a time about which we can’t and don’t want to say anything.) One of us (you, me) rides with the baby, the other watches. From above (as you or I drive of with the baby) or from below (as you or I arrive with the baby). Our baby is all bundled up. A bit of nose, cheeks almost wholly hidden, a hint of eyes — that’s all that’s peeking out from the wrapping. Our baby sits immobile between our legs on the sled. He is silent and glides. Then it snows even more, thick, leisurely, drifting flakes. We don’t see much, just this densely wrapped bundle with us (you, me) on the sled. No nose, cheeks, eyes. Just a gleam shimmering out from under a small hood. Maybe it’s only the snowflake melting on the tip of our nose.



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