A TOURIST WITH A LOCAL BAG
I walk down the street. For the lady
who’s working in the garden,
I am a tourist with a local bag.
But I’m not here for the sea,
I’m not here for the old town, I’m
here for a grave. With the help
of Google streetview I found
the cemetry, with the help of
some locals I find the grave.
With the bottle of water and the
loaf of bread from the local bag
I sit down on a low wall near you.
‘Life is like spring water,’ says
the bottle. ‘It runs in an infinite
number of shapes’. Long ago
you ran. ‘So,’ I say to the
picture on the stone, and take
a sip, ‘here they brought you,
your supple body, broken head.’
The memories, also those to me,
already gone then. I take a bite.
‘We eat bread with everything,’
you say. I eat bread at your
grave and listen to the crickets,
the traffic, take pictures, send some
whatsapp messages that I found you.
‘Come in,’ says a brother. ‘Sit
down,’ says a mother, as if they
had expected me all those years.
‘I have good memories
of your brother,’ I say to the
brother, ‘that’s why I’m here.’
‘Well, me too,’ he says and is off
to his job. ‘I’m always talking
to him,’ says the mother, nods
to the picture in the cupboard
above the sink, ‘in my mind
he is not dead.’ How alive
can someone who is dead be
Translation: Janneke Spoelstra
A tourist with a local bag
Ik rin de dyk del. Foar de frou
dy’t yn in tún oan ’t wurk is,
bin ik a tourist with a local bag.
Mar ik bin hjir net foar de see,
ik bin hjir net foar de stêd, ik
bin hjir foar in grêf. Mei help
fan Google streetview fûn ik
it begraafplak, mei help fan
in pear locals fyn ik it grêf.
Mei it fleske wetter en it
broadsje út ’e local bag set ik
my by dy op in muorke del.
‘Life is like spring water,’ seit
it fleske. ‘It runs in an infinite
number of shapes’. Do rinst
al lang net mear. ‘Dus,’ sis ik
tsjin de foto op ’e stien, en nim
in slok, ‘hjir brochten se dy,
dyn linige lea, stikkene holle.’
De oantinkens, ek dy oan my,
doe al wei. Ik nim in hap.
‘We eat bread with everything,’
seisto. Ik yt bôle by dyn grêf
en harkje nei de gershippers,
it ferkear, nim foto’s, ferstjoer
in pear appkes dat ik dy fûn haw.
‘Come in,’ seit in broer. ‘Gean
sitten,’ seit in mem, as hiene se
my al dy jierren al ferwachte.
‘I have good memories
of your brother,’ sis ik tsjin
de broer, ‘that’s why I’m here.’
‘Well, me too,’ seit er en giet
nei syn wurk. ‘I’m always
talking to him,’ seit de mem,
knikt nei de foto yn it kastje
boppe it oanrjocht, ‘in my mind
he is not dead.’ Hoe libben
kin ien dy’t dea is wêze
© Janneke Spoelstra
Wij yn 'e draaimûne (Afûk, 2019)