The quiet house
I think my grandmother is the calmest person I know. She owns almost nothing — an old clock that weighs more than it costs, a coat that still fits her after twenty years, and a kitchen that smells of bread every morning. Nothing in the house sounds expensive, and nothing appears new.
She never argues with anyone. When my uncle complains about the neighbours, she does not blame them for anything; when my cousin accused his brother of taking his bicycle, she only asked who had seen it last. She cares about the answer, not about who wins.
“I'm thinking about next winter,” she said last week. I can see why: the roof needs work. My father is seeing a builder on Friday. Everybody in the family depends on her, and she depends on nobody — but she believes in asking early rather than worrying about it in December.
Her house has one photograph on the wall: her husband at twenty. People say I look like him. On Sundays, when we are having lunch, she points at it and smiles. The tea always tastes the same, and that, she says, is the whole point.
My sister will apply for a place at university this year. If she succeeds in getting it, we will all congratulate her on her success the first evening she comes home. My grandmother will say nothing loud. She will look after the tea, insist on the good cups, and apologise for the small kitchen — and that will be her way of saying she is proud.
Savollar: 1. What three things does the grandmother own? · 2. What does she do when somebody complains? · 3. Why is the father seeing a builder? · 4. How will the grandmother show that she is proud?
