I'm paywalling it as it is written for the Wobby, a Dutch magazine that will have it published in a couple of weeks. But if you can - please read it. It's very personal. It goes together with a poem by Victoria Amelina, which I add, too, at the end, translated by herself.
A seed
Based on a truly made-up story.
For Victoria
Of course, I did not believe it, when she told me. You wouldn’t have either. Nobody would. But when things became truly unbearable, I started searching for it. By that time she had already passed away, killed by a Russian missile, which hit a small pizza restaurant, targeting nothing but 20 people having dinner and beers after a day of work near the frontline. So I felt no shame in what I was doing, as it felt just like a small personal ritual to remember this powerful yet so fragile woman. Like, once she had told me something odd over a drink, and after she was gone I did what she told me just to make her presence in my life last longer.
I checked the pockets of all the clothes I’d brought from home and all the bags, even those I’d already bought here in London, just in case. I searched boxes and pouches, and even the insides of shoes. Obviously, nothing was there and in the end, I simply smiled and thanked her for inspiring me to organize my belongings and donate what I didn't need anymore, enjoying the newfound space in my closet.
When we left the city, I had no time to