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It all started with the pain. The cut that divided my life into a before and an after was a cut that ate and ripped through me. He did not clearly separate two parts of one thing. No, he sawed apart and split. It was a constant chain of events that once started could not be stopped. A slow process of tugging and tearing at my body and soul so that I ended up ripped into tiny pieces. Nothing was the way I knew it.

"The bad things always happen to others," I thought. This time, however, I was the other. It started at my 34th week of pregnancy.

 

July 10, 2011 

Greek salad. I remember that. A Greek salad with tomatoes, cucumber, feta and olives. A light salad that suits a warm July day. However, this day is not warm, but hot. The fine fuzz at the hairline on the back of my neck ripples. I wipe off the sweat that is on my skin with the palm of my hand and tie my long hair back into a knot a little tighter at the back of my head. My feet are cold. They draw in the coolness of the stone floor. They're the only parts of my body that don't feel hot and don't collect sweat.

It's Sunday and we're not eating until the afternoon. That's what my memory tells me. A cold lunch that bridges the time between breakfast and a hot meal late in the evening. None of us feel a craving for anything but a trifle at this time of day. Something fresh in the mouth. With the tomatoes, olives and herbs on the tongue, a feeling of the Mediterranean comes up. All that's missing is the sea, the salty air and the scent of sand and pine trees. The air is still in the porch surrounded by windows where we are sitting.

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