THE AFTERGLOW spans the low horizon and puts the North sea in full blaze. Formations of cumulus clouds pass over stately high in purple, yellow and gold. The neighbors are standing on the dyke. They have no attention for the sun and its vibration of the evening song. They are having an argument. Always the same at eating time. They walk out of my view; their voices fade away. The window closes and I concentrate on my daily work. Today. I stay at home this evening. Don’t make my way outside. It is cold and drizzling. Don’t understand why they like to spend time outside in this cold with wrangling. In a minute they grin again to each other. Always the same song. I already said it. The curtains I slide. De heater is on twenty and in the kitchen the potatoes are on ninety. Just as the Brussels sprouts. Steamed vegetables. Lovely Holland. In a house at the dyke. Not very far from Amsterdam. The wind blows firm. It is fierce and it draughts through the chinks. But I don’t have them. Chinks. A green house. Most functional. The cold outside doesn’t bother me at all. Don’t have to look at it. Except when I go outside. Then I pull it nice and warm around me. You will not hear any complaint from me. For me all the weather is OK. If it hails or when the sun is shining. I love it all. That’s the way it is in this world. With the climate it’s the same. It will have it’s time. It can freeze and it can thaw. Sometimes it snows in April. But now it is March. She is not here anymore. She is gone. Where to, I don’t know. Two months ago, in the beginning of January, we have strewed her ashes. But now it is March. I am at home. Like so often. I steam the Brussels sprouts and so forth. But that you already knew. I am having a replay, but that’s what they always say, that after the first part of the story, the second part is directly and immediately a big disappointment. No more subjects for conversation. I talk with a lisp, once in a while. If such is correct English, I don’t know. Maybe we don’t write that anymore. That time has passed by. It will have it’s time. In a hundred years: it will hev its tid. Or something else. It can be like that, just as well. Just like it is freezing. Inside. Actually outside, but I typed inside. It’s a long lane that has no turning. A shudder pulls up my spinal marrow and the wind from outside, just through the window, passes me, into the hall of my house at the water and I walk to the kitchen. The fireplace is on. The sprouts are almost done. I like the sprouts to have a solid bite, some butter, a snuff of salt and nutmeg. That is something you do not want to spurn at a cold winter day in Holland. But that you already knew. Start to become senile. The old age comes with quick steps. Am as fit as a fiddle. Most happily. If all goes on, then one time you’re no longer there. Before you know it. Then he’s got a hold on you. He is. That sounds beautiful. He is. I can smell the earth. The Occident has come. Comes nearer with quick footsteps. In leather trimmed shoes. I walk to the living room. Sit behind the harpsichord and hit the si. That’s all. Resonates quite nice. Who is that man walking on the dyke? I don’t know him. Is quite sure the last time I ever see him. Go to the kitchen. The sprouts are ready. I strain them off and put the ingredients on top. Take a bit. Another one. Nice. Exactly right. Just like the sweet potatoes. Real solid green and white. I like to eat colors. Is healthy. Tomorrow red cabbage. With yellow-green apples. Is just as healthy, but really different. Every day something else. E ve ry. Sounds nice as well. E ve ry. And he is. He and she. We. I put the food on a Delft plate. Go at Safari. Later. At eight the kids are coming and we will go to the hurdy-gurdy at the parvis. They are now at my place. For a few months. They are already in their fifties. And no more kids for a long time. I am old and as fresh as a daisy. Eve is no longer. A tear is falling on the oak. Another one. What an adventures. Our times together. It was beautiful. I love her. Still. It never passes away. Also now when she is no longer here. Absent-minded. That’s how I feel. I am doing fine. Am as fit as a daisy. Only mentally it does not go the way it was before. I am going downhill and sometimes I forget things. Am also sad. Not because of me or the life. The most simple things. Things I just did. Damn. The food. I just finished the book about our live. About all of our adventures. Before I have forgotten it. You never know. For the same account I am taking the other way soon. Are you being run over by a truck. I cannot have that. Have to take a pee. It clinks well in yellow against the porcelain. I can piss like a heron. I lift one leg. Real funny. Now cross-wise like a dog. In the middle of the loo. Are the neighbors still barking outside? Before you know you are no longer there. You it. The end of part two of our series. First part was Blue Earth. Second part as well. Is called part two: HaRPSiCHoRD. Life is over like that. Eve is no longer here. Will never see her again. God dammit I feel totally bullocks. Am never abusive. But now I do. How was it like again? Her voice I can still hear. Her rattling laugh. The sound of her voice. My father’s I forgot. How my mother caressed me, I don’t remember it since a long time. Must have been sweet. Eve always caressed me with great interest. Each nerve she knew to move with full affection. But now not anymore. I need your touch. Like the moon needs the power of the earth. Your slim fingers on my forehead, my eyebrows. I never forget. Your footsteps I see them drawn in the wet sand. I pull the hair from the Paris’ brush and put them in the toilet. Flush them. Fuck the food. I run into the kitchen and take the Delftware from the table. Looks deliciously. The heat springs from the vegetables. Mm. Really delicious and crispy. So, that is delicious. Just enough. I clean the kitchen. The work for today is done. That’s the way it is. Her ash we have put, the three of us: me, Adam, my daughter Evgeniya and stepson Daniil, into ten or so coconuts and let go of them in the middle of the quiet, in the sun bathing, bay of Pattaya. The sea was light and clear, transparent blue. Mammatus clouds floated closer to us. We had never seen them before. According to Evgeniya Eve was hiding behind them. Thought it as well. Was her farewell present. Typical clouds; just like a woolly curled feather-bed. She sat on top of it. The waves became high and wild and we had to sail to the coast quickly. We were sitting under the protection of a tropical wooden roof and toasted to her, to the closed clouds. I tell you we all must die. The mother of our children is no longer. She enriched the earth with her deeds, her thoughts; the sea with her grey, granular ash. The coconuts have sunk for sure when the storm broke loose. Embraced by the sand on the bottom of the sea. Left the living. Out of there the transformation begins. Thanks to the transformation we are born. Are we all. For me the Occident has begun. I sit down in the leather arm-chair in front of the window, pull the curtain aside and look over the land, the sea in sight. A catamaran is skimming over the grey-green waves. My ship is rising his sails soon. My hands are resting relaxed on the wooden arm rests. Why does the treacherous fate divide what he once put together full of love? An old song opens the door in my head. A whiff of wind blows into the living room. I look up from my arm-chair, turn my head to the hall with one hundred mirrors. There is someone standing in the opening of the door.
‘You know who I am,’ he says.
The speaker is an angel. A golden and yellow lady-bird sits on his left shoulder. He closes his eyes and moves his lips. ‘It’s time we should be going.’

The evening sun shines gently
Upon these quiet meadows
Radiating rest and bliss
Upon every creature
It draws light and shade
Upon the flower-strewn field
And on the green grass
The crystalline dew sparkles

Here in the play of breezes
By the happy choir of birds
Profound feelings of rapture climb
In my breast
I breathe sweet joy
Into my head
And grief and sorrow fly from me
Into the mild evening glow

To you, who spread the glow of dusk
About the heavens
And send sweet night-sounds
Across this meadow
To you I devote this heart
Suffused with pure gratitude
It will still throb joyously
Even if once life begins to flee