A gaggle of women doing Nordic Walking approaches. They say hello. From the horse riding stables onwards, the asphalt road makes way to gravel. The Bernese Mountain Dog barks like mad. Even that rouses nostalgic feelings. The meadows glow in rich green, but the orchards are still asleep. A few warm days, and the buds will explode into bloom.
It had been just such a glorious April morning, then in 1981, when Father tried to explain in a tear-smothered voice that Mother had died. A neighbour had called him at the joinery to tell him that Maya had collapsed. She'd found her by the letterbox. We've never found out if her heart had given up there or if she'd still crawled that far.
I didn't get it. Only old people died. I felt all numb inside. In the village and at school, everybody wanted to comfort me. What for? I wasn't sad – I thought – just furious. I tried to talk to Father about it, wanted to ask him, what was wrong with me. Every time I tried, he burst into tears. Fortunately, I had Rita.