Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:


I’m on an island. Not a very large island (circling it takes no more than half an hour). The water, slightly stirred by the wind, caresses its shore. Ducks are rocking on the lake (typical duck behavior: rocking perfectly, without enthusiasm, casually, as a matter of course). In the background, mildly steep mountains, mottled with patches of snow. After daybreak, the sightseers come with the ship. They prowl about aimlessly, talking, laughing, taking pictures. Of me too, as I cross the cloister’s courtyard to enter the seminar house. The island is me, I call out to them, maybe you’re an island too, who knows. They wave in reply. I think of our baby: water and mountains lie between us. (I’m very pleased with myself for not trying to imagine what he’s doing at the moment. Not imagining his smile either, or the grip of his hand, nor even the occasionally upright shock of tangled blond hair. I’m imagining one thing only: how he’s lying in your arms.) 

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