When you see the footage of Georgians on your TV Saturday.
Tough to hold the channel steady for: refugee camps, Russian tanks, child corpses in charred autos.
When you could be watching: Sea of Love. Late-night talk show. A Jamaican in green and yellow run as if immortal.
But you do. Sit through. Until you are sick inside. And grateful.
Still. You wake into your own life. Pissy. Insomnia-addled. The chills roll in, first time in a week. The news from San Francisco weighs heavy. An (insane) urge (MUST see the Ex!) accompanies you all over. Mean as a migraine.
Georgia? Very far away.
Afternoon, window table, Sowohlalsauch, the waiter with the astounding brows. You haven't seen him for a while now.
You nurse your cappuccino. He brings you the check. He leans in, shy, respectful. I was wondering, he says, German spiced with an accent you can't unpuzzle, May I take a photo some day, you sitting at this table, black and white, that is what I do, my art, I want to capture images, of people here not German...
You smile. Try to hide your titillation. An honor, you say. And then: Can I ask you where you're from? (Spain, you've decided. The homeland so often attributed to you of late. Go figure.)
Georgia, he says, and No! you say, Your family!? Are they okay?
Yes, he says. His eyes are torn with fear and question. His eyebrows knotted, restive.
I wanted to go to them, he says, My father told me no, my friends told me stay. Oh, but I am ripped up inside. I couldn't come to work all week.
I am so sorry, you say. It must be awful.
I haven't watched the news since Friday, he says. I had to turn it off.
That is good, you say. That is better.
He lays down a Euro change. You slide it toward him. Oh, he says, thanks. 'Cause one's a lot on a four-Euro bill.
Still. You both know: a Euro means nothing. Not now, on this day when the sun laces in and out of Berlin cloud.
In Georgia a woman keens. That was her child in the auto.
Unsteady earth, indeed.
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