Apricots in February

Ein gewöhnlicher Besuch. Ein vertrauter Küchentisch. Eine Frage, die immer wiederkehrt: Sind die Aprikosen schon reif?
Es ist Februar. Die Antwort sollte einfach sein. Aber manche Fragen suchen längst nicht mehr wirklich nach einer Antwort.
Staubige Boom-Bap-Drums, ein eindringliches Bratschen-Sample, sparsame Oboe und ein intimer, gesprächsnaher Vortrag tragen Apricots in February durch den fragilen Raum zwischen Erinnerung und Gegenwart.
Namen werden verwechselt. Vertraute Gesten überdauern vertraute Gesichter. Ein Zug wartet, die Minuten vergehen. Unter diesen kleinen Alltagsmomenten liegt die schmerzhafte Erkenntnis, dass nicht alles berichtigt, zurückgeholt oder festgehalten werden kann.
Nach und nach weicht das Bedürfnis, erinnert zu werden, etwas weniger Sicherem, aber vielleicht Wichtigerem: einfach da zu sein.
Apricots in February handelt davon, was bleibt, wenn Erinnerungen verblassen, und wie die eigene Zeit manchmal das Wertvollste ist, was man einem Menschen schenken kann.

Originaltext

You ask me if the apricots are ready.
February. Snow against the fence.
I say the tree will need a little longer.
You nod and ask me how my journey went.
Your thumb keeps circling a dent beside your plate.
That thumb could fix my collar in one movement.
I'd pull away before you got it straight.
Now I sit still. You don't reach out to do it.
You call me by your younger brother's name.
I answer. Neither one of us corrects it.
You ask if I've been eating well enough.
Then push the larger half of breakfast toward me.

We can wait for the apricots.
I've got nowhere else to be.

That isn't true. I've got a train at seven.
A bag beside the door I haven't unpacked.
But every time you ask when I'll be leaving,
I find another reason to sit back.
My sister says you recognised the neighbour.
Laughed about the way he parks his car.
I nearly ask if you remembered my name.
Then ask if you'd been walking very far.
I used to count the hours that a visit cost.
Two there, two back, the weekend nearly finished.
You spent whole Saturdays beside a football pitch.
I wasn't even good. You never mentioned it.

We can wait for the apricots.
I've got nowhere else to be.

I try the song you always sang too early.
You come in half a sentence ahead.
I laugh before I think about the reason.
You grin because you know you've made me laugh.
For once, I don't go searching for a meaning.
I let the next line happen when it happens.
By five, the garden's almost disappeared.
You ask me if my father knows I'm visiting.
I say he does. You seem relieved to hear it.
Then tell me I should call before it gets late.
I move my bag away from where you see it.
You ask about the tree again.
I used to answer February.
Now I answer you.
We can wait for the apricots.
I've got nowhere else to be.