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The goats next door

We played tag, running through the faded red labyrinth as often as possible. We threw stones at the dogs when they got too close to the kitchen and splashed in the lake with the horses. There was school of course, but I remember the smell of the goats next door much more clearly than anything they ever tried to teach me.

I vaguely remember someone leaving for university and never coming back. When I see my children dashing past enormous tour busses to get to the now pink labyrinth, I wonder: If I had left, would I be like these tourists now? Going to far away places with strange languages to see other people’s children play. To see other people’s homes and families and eat their food. And what significance would it have, seeing a place I had no connection to, where I had no family, no friends, no memories. Would it even matter to me at all?

Posted by Beatrix MGN on December 8, 2016

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