On a warm, sunny Summer day in the garden of the house I grew up in, surrounded by pasturage with sheep, a corn field and a forest, I’m taking a sip of my soda, and suddenly the thought pops up:
“Ik wil naar huis.”
“I want to go home.” This was not the first, nor the last time that sentence enters my mind. It arrives unexpectedly, and often when I’m actually at home, with my loved ones and my things.
I remember my time with Tarzan, the Malinois dog, in the back of the garden, walking back and forth along the fence, softly singing made-up songs to my patient companion.
It’s rainy and cold. My father points at the concrete foundations, pools of brown, rusty water. “There will be the kitchen,” he says. I can’t believe it: we’re supposed to be going to live in this mess?