I sit in my bright-pink 20s nightdress, and face a difficult choice: 'a fiery chase' of the bouquet series (an absolute favourite when I was 10); 'Stalingrad'; or 'My Mother' by Georges Bataille. All three books are yellow, falling apart, and most importantly, found in my grandma's book closet. How on earth did these end up there?
Meanwhile, my 91-year-old Grandma is merrily scrolling through Facebook in her equally bright purple 20s nightdress. 'Oh your mum also congratulated Gerda'. 'Oh, she's always putting these horrible pictures'. She mutters, and laughs at pictures coming by.
"Grandma, are you always on Facebook at 1.30am?". Without her eyes departing from the screen she answers "Ah yes, I'm busy during the day so I check it before I go to bed. "oh and you know Lien put a request for thread for the elderly home so they can knit clothes for refugees. I got something already yesterday. She was so happy that someone saw it on her Facebook." The hanging clock loudly tells us it's officially 1.30.
I try to go back to my choice for my bed-read. 'The fiery chase' is simple, semi-sensual, and soothing with some ideal story of how 2 people will inevitably find the love of their life. Stalingrad tells 'the story of the fall 6th German army' according to the cover. Serious business. For 'My Mother' I need Goodreads and wikipedia. Errrr.... 'My Mother is a unique bildungsroman of a young man's sexual initiation and corruption by his mother'. A mother seducing her son? Incest? Trying to live the best life possible to succumb to lust and move away from ratio? How did this book end up in my grandmothers closet who lives in the Dutch bible-belt and wears black over-the-knee skirts most of the time?
"Grandma... Where's this book about?" "hmmm..? Oh I don't know that one. Oh wait yes I bought it on a book market. I started it but never finished it." I try to study the wrinkly face that is so dear to me. "why not?", I ask.
She ignores my question (purposefully or is it her hearing again?), stands up, takes her new Iphone 6 and says, "oh those peeing-tablets, I've got to go to the toilet", and walks, or rather stalks off as she always does: like there is still a lot to be done. I look at the clock: 1.32. Time to sleep.
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