The perfect tea...

Whenever I would wake up at night, in the living room of my grandparents on the corner of ulica Armii Czerwonej and Cmentarna in Swietochlowice (just skip the names, imagine they are numbers...) I would listen to the ticking of the wall clock, the snoring of my grandmother, the conversations of cab drivers on the other side of Cmentarna. Then the streetcars would pass by the window and cast their magic rays onto the ceiling, moving ones, loud ones too, metal on metal... I would get out of bed, walk barefoot on the warm parkett floor, my feet feeling every single particle of dust, the cracks between the wood, the threshold to the hallway, the linoleum. It was a long walk towards the kitchen. There, on the table with the drawer to which only my grandfather had the key, stood always a large coffee pot filled with black tea. I would not even look for a cup or a glass in the dark, as I really did not want to wake up the others. I would drink straight from the pot, the little me, the large, heavy pot. The tea was often warm, sometimes sweet, and always, always right. I would then sneak back, into the ticking living room, and I listened to the cars, the streetcars, watched the lights... I would then fall asleep (and usually dream of saving the lives of princesses...) It is funny to know that these connected rooms still exists, barely changed, guarded by my favorite uncle... while I am here, on the other side of the globe, watching the rays on the ceiling, made by cars going down broadway, listening to the sounds of the Subway being carried all the way up here... hmm... not sure why I thought of such a strange little moment just now... perhaps it is because I just finished the last glass of water in the house... and yes, it is getting a little late... (good night.).


what a beautiful memory...
I have many dreams of being small and walking through my granmother's house at night....
I'm always dreaming of houses.

still, after a while when you ve left your home country or language, the sounds of places contribute to the memory. when i read this story, it reminded me of the mixed feeling of melancholy and beauty that the title of the play 'a streetcar named desire' always raises in me. Just the title. In English, not in translation. i ve seen the play in dutch, but that had nothing to do with the feeling about this title. hm, i think i lost what i wanted to say :-)

What are we in the present? A formation of memories from the past? In this present we are making memories that later will be our present?

what a wonderful moment you've shared. And I love the image of the glass, but I kept looking at it wondering - photo? drawing? Either way, I love it. thanks

Funny you to post a memory about Grandmother's house. Mine had Kidney failure last nite.

Emily! How is your Grandmother?
Mine died about 9 years ago... not in the apartment though...
but I remember some other images in that same apartment... and they were rather sad.

Mary Beth, the image of the glass is now a JPEG. (It was originally a reflection in a metal table and a photograph on 35mm film and then a scan... and so on...) Glad you like it... I tried to keep the compression on "low".

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This page contains a single entry by Witold published on February 11, 2004 1:54 AM.

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