I was six years old and staying with my grandpa and grandma. I woke up to voices downstairs. Not loud. Not panicked. But different from usual. My grandpa and grandma were always quiet when I stayed the night. Now I heard doors, footsteps and the soft sound of people trying not to talk out loud. I got out of bed and walked down the stairs. My grandpa was already dressed in the living room. My grandma came out of the hallway with her coat in her hand. I asked what was going on. I no longer remember what they answered. Only that no one really answered.
A little later we were in the car. Outside it was dark. The streetlights cast yellow circles on the wet asphalt. I sat in the back and looked ahead between the front seats. My grandpa drove. My grandma sat beside him. Every now and then something was said, but softly enough that I could not understand it. No one told me what had happened. Still, I knew something was wrong.
The hospital was brightly lit. Behind the glass doors, people were walking around who seemed to know where they needed to be. My grandma took my hand and walked inside with me. At a stairwell I asked why we didn’t just take the elevator. She said the stairs were faster. We walked up. I no longer remember how many floors. What I do remember are the gray steps, the metal handrail and the echo of our footsteps between the walls.
Somewhere on the way up, my eyes began to burn. I still did not know what was going on. No one had said anything. Still, I felt something in my chest and throat that I had no words for. I blinked hard a few times in a row and looked at my grandma. I remember asking her: “Am I allowed to cry?”. She stopped on her way up and looked at me, squeezed my hand softly and said: “Yes, of course.”
I nodded and then we kept walking up. My eyes were still burning, but I did not cry. About thirty years later, I was once again sitting in a room where everyone knew something was going on, but no one seemed to know how it should be said.