Every morning I walk the same way with my dog. In my street I observe intermediate worlds: Houses whose inhabitants have reached the end of their lives or have just passed away. Houses that seem to be hiding, as if they want to hold the traces of their inhabitants a little longer before they fade away. At the end of our lives, we are all globetrotters from life here to something intangible in the afterlife. We leave behind only fading traces.
Some deceased people are allowed to leave their traces longer. I can still see the resident going into her house and sitting behind the window with her knitting. She never had much money. Her daughter doesn't have the heart to sell the house. The traces are still allowed to stay.
I have lived here for over 10 years now. I have never seen this neighbor. His daughter comes every noon to check on him. Some people's traces are hard to see.
An elderly couple used to live here. I can still see the two of them in your little car. He always had a hat on. She left before him. He had right of residence for life. There is a large community of heirs. Meanwhile, it's raining into the asbestos roof.
The house was built by a teacher couple. He passed away last year. He was allowed to stay in the house one more night. The daughter played the violin for him again. He was carried out of the house over the terrace and was allowed to linger under his apple tree one more time.
The house is already renovated. Only the bush in front of it remained. Before, an elderly couple with dog Daisy lived there. She had to go to the hospital. He wandered around the village and came to short-term care, where he died of Corona. She followed him a short time later. I wonder where Daisy is?
Some people quietly disappear without a trace. The hedge grows and the house is slowly lost behind it. I wonder if the sprightly lady is still alive there. She was a committed SPD veteran of the village and vehemently defended her opinion at the local council meetings. In the last legislative period, she suddenly stopped appearing, but did not want to give up her seat. New elections had just been held. She did not run again.
This house has seen a lot and still stands proudly and defiantly by the old village pond. I only know the last generation of residents and their story of family, separation and just the children moving out. The wife struggles with illness and mourns her mother who has just passed away. The house seems to wrap itself protectively around her and shows understanding that there is no strength to do the much needed roof repair.
There is a house hiding here and I have not seen the occupant in the garden for a long time. I have never been inside and yet I know all the rooms, or at least I think I know them. It is the same house that my parents once built in Bremen