omi und opi

that's what we call my dad's parents
my grandparents.

i went to see them yesterday. sat at their table and drank tea with them. listened to their stories. i noticed how many of their sentences start with 'during the war'. more often than i remember that they used to. i love listening to their stories. i try to image how the world must have been like at that time. they were children. my opi tells me how he regrets that he didn't pay much attention when his dad showed him how to harvest the flowers of a basswood. for making tea. but he does remember how his dad would put them on a table in the bedroom to dry. and then during the night there was a bomb alarm and they had to open the window. 'you had to decide', he said, 'if you wanted broken glass all over your bedroom or basswood tea'. they chose to keep the windows. but with the windows open all of the flowers were blown away.
i wonder how it sounded like. bomb alarm. what they thought when it happened. and if that fear still sits in their bones. they were children then. now i study their faces. the lines. the wrinkles. the grey, grey hair. my opi's hair is white. snow white. and is still combed to the side. just the way it was on their wedding photo. i studied that too on the way to the washroom. their eyes haven't changed. they still look young. their eyes. except that my omi can't see anymore. or at least not much. i wonder how i will look like when i am old. if i will have young eyes myself.
they tell me about their day. my opi loves to get up early. 5:30 am early. but lately, my omi holds him at his arm and makes him stay in bed until at least 6am. then he is allowed to get up. they have their routine all worked out. he does his morning routine in the bathroom while she sleeps. at around 7am a nurse comes by to help him put on his socks. he can't do that anymore. my opi is tall. real tall. but his bones or muscles or tendons seem to have lost their flexibility. so he can't bend forward. after the nurses leaves he makes breakfast. 'you gotta find yourself a husband like mr. krauss', he tells me. that's what the nurse said that morning. i can see that comment made him proud. the twinkle in his eye is still there. he is a boy in an old body.
at 7 am they eat breakfast. then opi lies on a massage blanket that omi has put on the bed for him. it massages his back. after 15min it's my omi's turn. after that they lie down on the couch. or go to the market. just before noon my opi makes lunch. omi puts all the ingredients on the counter in an order so he knows what to use first. she can't do that anymore. but she used to cook for about 15 people. christmas at their house was always a riot. huge, huge christmas tree. 4 or 5 feet tall. lots of food. lots of presents. and lots of people. christmas used to be my favorite holiday.
after lunch they nap. it's his favorite activity, my opi tells me. napping. then they heat up the left-over coffee from breakfast and have something sweet to eat. my opi loves watching animal shows. he tells me that he would love a baby lion. they are just so cute. my omi sits on the balcony and knits. it's quiet where they live. omi watches the other seniors walk their circles in the yard.
sometimes there is a community dinner downstairs. they love the food there. 'you order it a week in advance. and if we don't like what's on the menu for the next week then we don't go', my omi tells me.
sometimes the two of them speak at the same time. i feel like i am watching twins trying to get my attention. and i don't know who to listen to. my omi and my opi. she is small and round. he is tall and thin. i always loved how they looked together. opposites but they match so well. opi calls my omi 'schatz'. that means treasure.
he was a tailor. retired years ago. but wherever he lives word gets around and so now, he is 'working' again. other seniors in the house bring him pants to take in. or shirts to fix. when i arrived he was standing over the ironing board. working on some corduroy pants. 'they just can't be in a hurry', my omi says, 'we won't do anything in a hurry anymore. that's no fun.' she knits for other seniors.
the air is soft in their apartment. the doors are open. lots of light. lots of pictures. of my dad. his siblings. of me when i was a child. some of the people on the photos don't live anymore. the radio plays german country music. my opi whistles through his teeth. especially when he works. i noticed that my dad does that too.
there is a lightness in their day. no business. they had worked hard enough. they are still the same. just a little older.

my omi and my opi.