Of signs and small miracles

I was too tired to sit at my desk armed with pen and paper, but I was also way too awake to sleep. I listened lazily to the click the ballpoint pen made as I clicked his face on and off again. Where to start
Somehow I had to get rid of the question marks that had built up in my head over the course of the day, but how should I unravel the mess?
Perhaps best of all with the things that I knew, that were familiar to me. The thing with the vase, for example. I remembered this story very well, but I hadn't thought about it in recent years. The incident had disturbed me so much at the time that I had not tried again to demonstrate my trick with the vase. Nor did I like to tell about it and so the incident was forgotten.

It all started when Gina - Marcos and therefore also my mother - got the good piece from a friend.It had been hand-painted by that friend and was very fragile, which is why it had stood on top of the bookcase. Because Marco had this tremendous affinity for everything that had only been remotely exposed to artistic processes. From a picture in a museum to a bent spoon, he was excited about just about anything. Unfortunately, most of the things that my adoptive brother and I chose as toys were subject to the laws of gravity at some point or became part of a higher order that the adults described as chaotic, but which was simply Marco's very personal little world in which he everything found again. Well, almost everything. In short: Everything we touched, especially when we weren't allowed to, either broke or disappeared without a trace. So de Vase was up there.
It had rained that afternoon, so Marco and I had to keep ourselves busy inside. Alone because our little sister was sick and needed all the maternal care she could get.And Marco and I, we would not have been us, had we not prepared a mission for this boring afternoon, which of course consisted of confiscating and closely observing that vase. Although she was up there and for us, at the age of six and seven, boys inevitably not too big, we had a decisive advantage over adults: in our world everything was still possible.
So we sat in front of the cupboard, longingly looking up and trying, with the strength of our minds, to move the vase down. Minute after minute passed while we crouched and concentrated, but of course nothing happened. After a quarter of an hour, an eternity for two children our age, Marco gave up with a sigh. “It was probably a trick on TV,” he speculated disappointed, “or we just can't concentrate that much. Hey, Kori! Kori!You do not listen to me!"
I woke up from the half-sleep I had fallen into. "Yes, yes," I assured hastily, "You said it wouldn't work ... or something ... and copy something ..."
He poked me in the side. "You are stupid. I thought you would help me!"
"Maybe we're just doing something wrong," I began to speculate, ignoring the insult.
"You mean we should climb up?"
"Are you crazy?!"
"Pssst!", He said, startled, "She can still hear us."
"Exactly," I continued more quietly, "when you climb, you're always so loud."
"But I thought ... maybe you could ..."
"Nothing there. I was only caught yesterday climbing around on the cherry tree next door. Mom doesn't want me to climb everywhere."
"You looked hilarious in your underpants on the neighbor's cherry tree," he teased.
"Shut your hackles, that's the best way for me to climb", I snapped and punched him in the stomach, "Now listen, moron.Maybe we just have to do it differently ... "
He tilted his head and listened to the words of his big, rather rude and often quite stupid brother, because if Marco had one thing, it was knowledge of human nature and he knew that it was better not to irritate me if I thought it was a good idea to have.
"We imagined the vase would come to us and we were down here," I explained my train of thought, "but maybe it must be the other way around. We have to imagine that we are the vase and are flying off the cupboard." That seemed to him to illuminate. He shifted on his buttocks, found a more comfortable position, closed his eyes and mumbled: "We are the vase ..."
I did the same without mumbling, because I thought that was childish, which I didn't tell him. He was just the little brother and they had to behave childishly and annoy them. That was a law of nature.I'm a vase,I thought instead,round on the outside and hollow on the inside, like Vito from the second grade, and I'm tired of always standing on the cupboard here ...I kept repeating this phrase over and over until suddenly ...
"Oh my god, she's moving," he breathed in awe next to me. I hardly heard him. The strange feeling under the skin, as if it had suddenly become hard and made of porcelain, the hollow chuckle in the stomach where there was nothing left, and the intense smell and taste of dust, deep in the throat, were too fascinating. In my mind I could touch it, become part of it with every fiber, so that I now moved millimeter by millimeter towards the edge of the shelf until I finally fell over it. It wasn't until Marco caught the vase that I was startled. It was as if someone had grabbed my stomach. Completely perplexed, I stared at the result of my efforts, which now rested safely in his hands and was eyed curiously by him. "Boaaah," he said. Only then did he look at me. "We ... did it," I whispered absently.
"You, not us. At first I thought you were sleeping again, but then she moved.That was so COOL! "He looked at me with real admiration. I should have felt great, but I felt horrible because I was still the vase, still tasting the dust, feeling the pressure on my stomach that his hands were putting on the jar.
I started yelling at him, he was telling me I could break, and eventually he got me crying and screaming. I didn't care that we got blown up.
Only when Gina pulled me close did I calm down a little. "He's the vase," announced Marco, who had hidden it behind his back. "You mean he thinks he's the vase," she corrected, but he stuck to his wording. "He's the vase."
Her eyes, overtired from the night shift at our sister's bed, examined me first, then Marco. "The vase you're hiding behind your back?" She guessed correctly. My brother nodded guiltily. "You said we shouldn't climb up and get her, but we didn't either!", he then quickly began to defend himself and tell me," But Kori threw her down! He just looked at her and then she flew down. That was so awesome! "Gesticulating enthusiastically, he was about to tell her all the details of our secret mission when I screamed:" You're dropping me! "
Startled, he clutched the vase while Gina looked down at me, perplexed. She swallowed. "You and your stories," she sighed softly, crouching next to me and hugging me.
"It's true!" We both protested.
She nodded knowingly, although she and her pragmatic mind knew nothing at all. "And now you are the vase ...?"
"I imagined it and now it's me ..." I whimpered. She gently stroked my head. "But how can you be the vase and Kori at the same time?" she wanted to know.
"Don't know," I sniffed and spit on her sweater. "B-are you mad?"
She shook her head, although you could tell that she was anything but enthusiastic.Still, she hugged me to comfort me. "Careful!" I warned.
"It's okay," she said, amused, "I'm not going to break you. But I'd prefer you to be just Kori again. If you keep the vase, how am I supposed to hug you there and how are you going with Marco and Kezia romp? And what will papa say when he finds out that his son is now a vase of flowers ...? "
"I don't even want to be the vase!" I sobbed.
"Then you have to tell her that so she'll leave you alone," she decided.
"And that works?" I asked doubtfully, while Marco had already put the vase in front of my feet.
"You'll never find out if you don't try," she ducked the answer. So I stood in front of the vase with both hands on my hips and said, "I'm not you. I'm Kori, and you are the vase."

I smiled when I thought about that episode of my childhood. Marco had tried many times later to convince me to move objects, but from then on I preferred to use my hands, just like everyone else.Memories, I wrote on the piece of paper in front of me. Then below:Vase.
I could try again,thought,Why not? It can't be worse than spitting fire ...
I didn't want to think about the other scene in which my brother had appeared, the one with windward. I was upset enough to think about his death and that of his girlfriend Lucia. I hated going back to the matter just to ponder questions that no one could answer for me. He was dead, he couldn't tell me whether he had believed in my innocence, whether he had suspected that someone else was responsible for the murders of his girlfriend and our parents, despite the clues Lavande had left behind each time . Luv was no longer alive either. Where should I have looked for the answers? So I concentrated on the other voices.
Now that there was something on the sheet, sorting was easier for me.I continued to write:Jazz, stones.- She had quoted the verses from a collection of poems, in one of her rare romantic inconsistencies -Schnösel in the officeandElevator vulture: Were you next to you? I was sure he knew what had happened to me when Rick touched me. ->[i]question, I scribbled. If I were to bring the three - no, both - the ashes, they would have to share their knowledge with me.
The morning girl was actually one of my memories, but she'd been entangled in the babble of voices in a way that struck me as important. I opened another column with the headingStranger Voicesand noted:Damn it, a dragon, because she had spoken to the neuter, as well asYami does not exist,Accident,You can have it. Then they think I'm still alive and are not so sadandThis is mine.After thinking for a moment, I underlinedYamiandUnfall.I