To fall asleep in expectation, wonder and harmony.
To wake up, in the quiet, go through the routinous that is not quite so. To be greeted by fog and drizzle, instead of sunshine, but to smile, as the hair limps and looses its designated form. To smell spring, in the muddy earth and thick air, in the strange wind and the restless waves.
To doubt. To wait. To smile, at the first one to remember and know. To be summoned, all mysteriously and foreshadowingly. To be given a book of love poetry, in Estonian. To loose every time I should like to read it. To sit in class, anxious. To get cryptic parcels, tea and tulips, with endless buds, and a card and the smiles. To have half of the world hugging and congratulating you. To be sung the birthday song, in front of class and to laugh at the name dilemma. To offer candy. To reply with the same to birthday wishes, in forgetfulness. ‘Three’. To blush. To remember the the birthyear of a long-dead poet, but not the second type of language logic.
To eat candy for lunch and fail a test of Maths. To worry and eat freshly-baked carrot-bread. To be late for Biology and bask in the sun. To confuse denaturation and denaturalisation, for what is the difference between proteins and citizenship? To constantly smile and skip French, because ‘it’s all mine to skip’. To pack up the tulips and be off to the centre. To have a dedication written on top of a friend’s head. To have a tick in the ‘Daily Deed Of Good’ box. To joke about the thingummies that give out cash and to see when the last trolley home leaves.
To laugh, mishear and be silly. To dispute about the perfect way of trying not to miss a bus. To sing Batman-songs. To comment about dining-places and be blown away by the wind. To sit in the most unlikely pub/restaurant, in the middle of a round table, on a red couch. To be packed full after no more than some nachos and three slices of pizza. To be manic, psychotic and in every manner crazy. To talk, to friends and not worry any more. To drink banana-strawberry milkshakes and leave a proper tip.
To go about circles in the Old Town, searching for some place to stop at. To find lots, but to be picky and whiny and walk some more. To walk and walk and walk in the darkness. And laugh. To try to be reasonable, while your friends are singing ethnic-sounding songs of rhythm, dancing salsa on the central street of the Old Town. To decide upon a groceries’ store instead, to stand between the energy drinks and beer section, in a circle of five, discussing the world and a wedge of cheese (in a manner of speaking). To buy three Dr. Peppers and to walk through the city, searching again. To stop in a lounge with very loud music, stalks of cotton buds as decorations and green light. To buy the first legal glass of white wine. To discuss it, and students and siblings, the rituals of drinking vodka and to grow a little more quiet.
To walk through the gleaming streets for a late ride home. To stand and still talk, now of life and goals and people. To be tired and muddled, but to still talk. To carry hefty mattresses, light candles, drink champagne from a miniature bottle and read Stardust aloud in turns. To fall asleep in the wee hours of the First Day of Being Eighteen.
To known that all of the friends are little wonders.
