Sunday morning

Sunday morning. Rising with the sun. Reading June. "Behind the story I tell is the one I don't. Behind the story you hear is the one I wish I could make you hear."

Remembering Leipzig. The trip to this once forbidden part of the same country. Finding a picture of Leipzig in the mail. Sent by one of the friends who was part of the trip. A view from the flat that was ours for some days. A view I had missed.



Walking to the bakery. Passing a single red tulip on the way. Fragile it stands on its own, on the side of the street. No fence, nothing to protect it. Still it reached the point of flowering.

In the bakery, a grandma and her grandson. Buying rolls. "We don't eat here, or on the way," the grandma explains the concept of breakfast in a modern day family. "We go home, wake your mum, and your uncle, and then we all sit down at the table."

On the way back, church bells ringing eight o'clock, and on. Filling the street with vibrations that almost feel liquid. At the porch, a black bird with an orange beak, staying until I am a step away. Then she takes wing, and flies up to the roof, to see the street in a view I will keep missing.