Shake Hands

Shake Hands

His Philosophy of life so simple, yet so deep. “One must be good to be happy” is what he told me often.

And so he was: …good and happy.

We walked on starry nights and gazed at the sky looking for aliens to abduct us and take us to see their wonderful worlds.

It never happened, but we walked together under starry skis.

Walking with him: better than any alien world.

He taught me stuff.

I am here to teach you how to live without me … not with me” he said this too.

Words that hit my young chest and filled me with tears.

And so he did:  …he taught me well.

We flew a kite from mountain tops and windy prairies… never by the sea.

Big kites shaped like birds, made from colorful fabrics, anchored by thick rope.

…thick rope that blistered his hands. But he always laughed at the kite.

When you meet people, look at their eyes with peace, extend your hand and shake theirs firmly” he taught me when my child hands were big enough.

And so he did: …he shacked hands with love and made friends.

We shook hands one morning and he hugged and kissed me goodbye one morning when leaving for school.

My dad died at 9 that day.

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Hiding behind a slightly opened door my 5-yaer old eyes witnessed the unthinkable.

A muffled dry scream bouncing off the walls.

The repeated sweaty swings of the golf club … and blood.

The 6th blow and it was over for her … and for me!

He died in jail soon after.

I grew up in foster care.

From foster parent to foster parent. Twelve houses in total.

I never talked again; nobody helped; they just threw me out over and over again.

I never understood a word spoken by them.

I heard mumblings, only mumblings.

I discovered a puppet in the garbage one day.

A beautiful old elephant-puppet. Dirty, torn and neglected.


I named it Maximilian.

I fell in love.

I could understand when Maximilian talked to me … and he talked and signed all day long.

I am a puppeteer, a very happy puppeteer.

…still hiding behind my puppet theater.

I am a puppeteer. Orphan since 5

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Waiting for Paradise

Waiting for Paradise

“Isn’t it here?”, I ask myself day and night.

Eighty-five years ago with no food on the table, my sick mother fed us hugs for breakfast and with a kiss we went out the door to our little red one-room school.

We learn how to read, write and add.

Wars came.

That’s what they told us when the man spoke through the radio.

New battles went … came again.

Little food started showing up on the table.

We had shoes now; a new pair every year for Christmas.

Mom kept feeding us hugs for breakfast and bread for lunch.

Dad died on a sunny day.

Mom died during a storm.

I worked at a factory 10 hours a day.

I filled bullets with powder and inspected parts for tanks.

New wars came and went.

There was food on the table; … and drinks!

I got a pair of high heals and danced while people died far away.

Now, I am simply waiting for paradise.

“Isn’t it here?”, I ask myself day and night.

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