The door to the good room has been locked for hours, the keyhole closed. It mysteriously crackles and rustles behind it. Mother is not there. Father is sitting at the kitchen table, in front of him a minute minder that rings every 20 minutes. Then Father puts on barbecue gloves, opens the oven door and sprinkles the goose, whose skin has gradually darkened with salt water.
The ticking of the alarm clock divides the late afternoon into tiny pieces, its ringing promises that it will not be that long. My little brother has found the tin with the shortbread cookies and is going over it. The TV is next door. News. Father changes location, we follow him. A crying soldier carries a child on his outstretched arms. "Is that the Christ child? When will it finally come, ”my brother complains. Father looks serious, doesn't answer. Smoke oozes from the kitchen.
Later the cookie jar will be empty and my brother will throw up.
Mother will scold and complain of migraines. Father will pull the goose's black skin off and remain silent.
Stille Nacht
the conductor lifts
the baton
