We’re all gonna die, we’re all gonna die’ the sound of the soft voice of Sufjan Stevens fills my ears while I am on my way home. I just visited my 94-year old friend, living in a nursing home in a village close to mine, whom I’ve known since Christmas last year. She often tells me about her memories, about her job in an office, her colleague who always took her work with him to the boss, but after a while gladly got fired, her brothers and sisters, who took dancing classes, and sometimes secretly danced in the hallway of her home, the many pets she had, and her mother, with who she was very close.
And always she mentions Amsterdam, where she lived the biggest part of her life. I tell her that I am going to Amsterdam tomorrow, where I will catch up with a friend of mine. ‘My family lives in Amsterdam, but they are all dead’ she answers me.
It must be an odd feeling, to be only witness left of passed days
Originally published on: January 23, 2018