haribo

i won a package of gummi bears at work today for answering a question of a quiz.
i thought of you.

i remember when i used to arrive at your house and there was always that shiny gold haribo package on my pillow in the guest room. chocolate for mom, gummis for me.

when i was younger, i used to eat them as fast as i could and since you and mom were always so busy catching up, no one noticed if i ate them for dinner and breakfast the next morning. i ate them by the handful as i read the nancy drew books i had packed, because i didn't speak german and didn't care too much for what the grown-ups were talking about anyway. i was sure it had something to do with weather or bowel-movements, like what happened when we visited my texas grandma.

you always had a stash of candy ready for our trips. i could go to the cupboard where the butter was kept (not refrigerated!) and right next to the soups were piles of marzipan, milka, merci and haribo. i was the only one that ate the gummis. i still swear they lose something in that trans-atlantic shipping. they never taste like they did at your house.

i remember my first year of college when i learned german and would call you once a month to talk. i always felt so good about myself for making the time to call you. now i wish i had called every day. i know you must have been so lonely by yourself in that apartment.

i know you hated getting older and fought the reality that some things just weren't as easy as they used to be. things like taking a bath or climbing stairs or later on, even walking.

that monstrosity of a garage still looms large behind our house. i remember when we built it and mom kept saying the apartment on the second floor was such a good idea because you could come and live there and then we'd all finally be together again. she always hated that you were so far away. i never mentioned that i thought it was a strange idea to have an old person climbing stairs all the time, but only because i thought i might be able to swap you for my room and have the garage apartment to myself... ha! soon, though, it became apparent that the garage would be no different from a lot of things in our family and would never be finished. it just sat there, half-done, pretty on the outside, but incomplete inside.

things seemed so much simpler back then and i didn't really have a grasp on anything.

i miss you a lot. i wish we'd been closer. there are so many things i'd want to say. i would want to tell you that i am a window dresser now, just like opa was. i would want to ask you what you thought of my artwork and what my mom was like when she was little. i would want to ask about your childhood and where our family lived before the war. i would want to document everything. every detail. every name. every place.

and i would want to thank you for all the gummi bears.