I don’t know, how come it hits me now. My mum. She’s dead. It is ten years on August 10th.
I was in Italy. The first time ever I got to see the parents of Giorgio. I went to Assisi for a language course. A month, a whole month. I wanted to get to Hungary before that – was studying in Germany that time – but my mum said, it would be too much travelling, it is ok, if I visit them after the course, so I can tell them, how it went.
I was in Italy for 10 days before I got the news from my father.
I still remember, how it felt. I read that bloody message, I guess, not even my father had the strength to call me, he just wrote it down: Hajnika, mummy died yesterday evening. I still remember, how I was sitting on the bed, while Giorgio was preparing the coffee, before he had to take me to the class. After I read this one sentence, I tried to call him with a calm voice: “Giorgio”, but all what came out of my mouth was a desperate yell and I was already crying. I couldn’t even tell him, what happened, I just kept telling him: my mum, Giorgio my mum. He certainly understood.
There were few days before the funeral could be organized and I didn’t want to go back to Hungary. I might have thought, that if I am not at the funeral, it will be, like nothing would have happened. Obviously I knew, I can’t undo anything by hiding myself, but still, I tried.
On the third day I took the train and went to my mum’s funeral. The trip to Hungary was like a bad dream. August, all the people were travelling for holiday, when they asked me, what am I supposed to do in Hungary, I couldn’t lie, I told them, that I am going to my mum’s funeral. I wasn’t crying anymore, I just felt, like I feel since then: alone.
She was a kind of person, who knew me so good, she just knew, when something was really important to me, without me ever having told it to her. She knew the night, I slept the first time with a guy, I really really don’t know how she knew that. Once I had a crush on a guy, who then finally wrote me a letter, and she, without knowing anything about it, without having seen, who was the letter from, gave it to me by secretly with that special look, like she knows, what is going around.
I remember, when she died, I was frightened, that I might forget everything she taught me, how she was, how she felt like, I felt so miserable that I left her in Hungary and went to Germany in the last few years of her life.
For ten months, after she died, I had problems with breathing. You know, when you can’t breathe properly, when you are stressed or you fear something. I had bad dreams, I always dreamed about her, being young, being healthy, and the next morning it just hit me again even stronger, that she is not young, she is not healthy, she is dead.
The next month though I made my hardest exam with the best note and started to save money to go to study to Venice and Barcelona for a year. I did it on my own, without having asked anyone a cent. I guess, that saying about what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger must be true.
I missed her every time, when I had a hard decision to take, a job offer to accept, I am still a kid, or at least I would love someone to call me one.
At this time of the year I can’t help myself, I always think about her, about how beautiful she was, how I loved to come to her in the mornings into her bed and listening to the radio or talking about school or just putting our backs together, a back-cuddle we called it.
I just grew up with that message on that August morning ten years ago. I have no mother anymore, and it won’t change ever.