You are what you eat the packet proclaimed boldly. If that is the case, I am a handful of raisins, a walnut or two, and several half-chewed almonds. Nice.

I am back from my travels. I am not ready to resume my real life yet. Despite this, I am happy to escape from the torture which was being force-fed cakes of all varieties. Strudel, Mohnkuchen, Pflaumenkuchen, Bananenkuchen… the list goes on and on and on.

At seven this morning, Oma stood making sandwiches out of rough potatobread (which went uneaten, needless to say. Potatobread scratches when swallowed. I would go as far as to say it does not deserve the ‘bread’ label). Red-rimmed eyes.

Ich werde euch so vermissen! she squeaked. I’m not sure whether the squeaky element was intended as a comical interlude, light relief from the overbearing earliness dangling above our breakfast, or whether those were actual tears, an actual crack in her voice. God knows it happened enough times. All I had to do was smile at her from across a crowded table, or cover her weathered hand with its age spots with mine, and her face would contort. Opa would be so proud. She worried me yesterday. She was sitting back in her chair, face grey. Occassionally she took large gulps of air, which she let out in monumental-sigh form. She looked lost, and at the same time, beached. I’m not coming out, she said when I asked, I feel like I may have another stroke. She half laughed afterwards. Perhaps this is the easy acceptance of the old. If that’s so, I don’t ever want to get old.

That path of eventualities does not bear thinking about.

Now that I am back, my brain must switch itself back to English. I hate that I belong to neither countries properly. You live here? asked the British passport checker woman in surprise, raising immaculate eyebrows. Stoke-on-Trent? the German passport checker woman asked, furrowing her (even more immaculate) brow.

My sister has gone out to have her belly button pierced, against orders. The rest of the family is still in Germany. Hence this is the first time I am alone, properly, in two weeks. Perhaps longer.

Perhaps a smoke from my roof.