The After After the Now
I had a hair fall out the other day. It was about 25cm long and snow white. I tried to imagine how long this hair might have existed on my head. I looked in the mirror. Every day I see myself unchanged, more or less. Still, I know Milla is getting older, I’m getting older, and I’m standing in this bathroom that’s part of our shared apartment – so co-father/co-mother/child – where we’ve all lived together for a few years, and I suddenly feel a teeny bit like I’m a guest. I realize that I am in the middle of a stage of my life. Before that were others, after that come others. There will be the time when Milla moves out. I’ll probably look in the mirror the same way then and not find any great change from the day before in my face. The desire for a home of my own now creeps up on me in the back of my mind. How crazy, I think, you’re at home, and in one where you feel really comfortable and content. A happiness, a luxury, so to speak. But the feeling remains persistent. I can’t stop longing for a sanctuary of my own at this moment. After a haven of peace and security just for me. After a mirror that I do not have to change. Later. When Milla moves out, I think I will likely become a bit of the woman I was before she was born. No wife, no golden retriever, and there probably won’t be a city mansion with a garage driveway lined with blue-purple hydrangea bushes. There will also be no more small child to occupy me, distract me from some questions. It seems more realistic to me that I continue to check the box for single on my tax return. This then probably means something like “free” and also “alone” and everything in between. A multicolored vision for me. So I imagine a small apartment that belongs only to me. With creaking wooden floor and a window through which sunlight falls in the morning. I put a vase with hydrangea flowers on a rickety secretary. I smile. In my mind, the word retirement plan twists and turns. No one will take care of it but me.
