berührte sie mit seiner Art zu schreiben sehr. Sie könnte auch ihrer liebsten Freundin in Berlin telefonieren, auf dem Sofa eine Serie schauen, Kuchen backen, sich die Fußnägel lackieren, einen Brief schreiben oder puzzeln. „ Ich kenn dich nur tuend und nie seiend “, hatte ihre Freundin Nicola einmal zu ihr gesagt. Nicola, die sich tragischerweise schon vor vielen Jahren suizidiert hatte. Aber selbst das konnte sie heute nicht traurig machen. Sie sandte einen stummen Gruß voller lieber Gedanken Richtung Himmel. „ Egal wie schwer das Leben gewesen war, ich bin ein glücklicher Mensch und dankbar für alles !“, hatte ihr Bruder neulich zu ihr gesagt. Und sie wusste genau, was er meinte. Ein tiefes Glücksgefühl und eine Dankbarkeit erfüllten sie und sie hätte gar nicht sagen können, woran das lag. Vielleicht an den Menschen, die ihr so herzlich verbunden waren und die sie liebte. „ Glück ist Liebe, nichts anderes. Wer lieben kann, ist glücklich “, fiel ihr ein Zitat von Hermann Hesse ein , und sie gähnte herzhaft und spürte die Entspannung bis in die Zehenspitzen. The day began with heavy rain , but nothing could dim her sense of happiness. The shower had refreshed her, and she looked forward to breakfast. She loved breakfast— she prepared it with care: freshly sliced tomatoes, fruit, eggs, and cold cuts. The radio was playing—RadioOne from Berlin, her favorite station—while her eyes skimmed across the Süddeutsche Zeitung . Which article would catch her attention today, which news would matter? The bread she had bought the day before filled the kitchen with its promise, and she felt glad she had taken the small detour to her favorite baker. The rain, she thought, was good for the garden, saving her the chore of watering in the evening. I feel so well—life could not be more beautiful, she thought blissfully, as she savored a soft-boiled egg with a piece of yeast cake. She had spread salty butter across the sweet slice—a butter she had brought home from a trip to Alsace the previous week. A whole free day lay before her, and she had not yet decided how to spend it. She might browse the newspaper at leisure or return to her novel, which fascinated her so deeply. Your Absence Is Darkness —that was its title, and the Icelandic author’s voice touched her in ways she could not quite explain. She could just as well call her dearest friend in Berlin, watch a series on the sofa, bake a cake, paint her toenails, write a letter, or work on a puzzle. “I only know you as doing, never as being,” her friend Nicola had once told her. Nicola, who had so tragically taken her own life so many years ago. Yet even that thought could not sadden her today. She sent a silent greeting upward, filled with love. “No matter how hard life has been, I am a happy man and grateful for everything,” her brother had said to her recently. And she knew exactly what he meant. A deep sense of happiness and gratitude filled her, though she could not have named its source. Perhaps it was the people who bound themselves to her with such warmth, the ones she loved in return.
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