Oma

I remember walking across the pebbley tiled footpath through the neatly tended garden
to the house with the octagonal window. Through the green door and across multiple doormats, one soft, one made of wire and bristles, one inside the door. Your shoes can never be too clean you know.

Warm and cosy, never changing.

I remember the kettle sat on the gas hob, the kettle that must have had the loudest whistle in all the world. My mother hated it. I remember the little nook only I could squeeze into, sat on an orange topped stool overlooked by a woolen clown picture I had stitched. It hung proudly bright.
I remember the itchy stiff green sofa with covers clothing the arms where I sat watching the fabeltjeskrant before going to bed. I remember the jade and white stone coaster from my father's trip to India which sat in the middle of the round wooden table. I remember the little china box where pieces of dark diabetic chocolate were hidden. I used to take pieces when no one was looking. I remember the dining room table covered with what seemed to me to be carpet.

Everything always in it's place, but if I messed it all up it didn't matter at all.

I remember the steep steep stairs, they had black plastic edges. A tall brass stand iced with a lacey top greeted me at the top. I remember the wedding photo next to the bed the slanted ceiling overhanging.

I remember her warm hands praying over mine as she put me to bed. She used to say she was my kacheltje {little oven}.

I wish I could go back there again, to Ringalee 95, to her.