galerija/zgodba-graduation-gift-for-him.jpg
Every picture I had ever seen of this kind was about something that had already happened. I did not want that. I am twenty four and most of my life has not happened yet, so I ordered a picture of it anyway.
It hangs above my desk. I see it every morning before I see anything else, which was the entire point.
The house is on the truck and it is not finished, because it does not exist. There is a board in front of it with a year on it: 2031. That is not a wish, it is a deadline, and it is written the same size as everything else so I cannot pretend I did not put it there.
The workshop is next to it, with my name over the door and the name of a business that currently has one customer, who is my uncle, and who has not paid yet.
There is a van with the logo on the side. The van is real. It is the only thing on the picture that is already real, and it needed a new clutch in March.
Every suitcase strapped to the back has a sticker on it for a place I have not been. Iceland, Portugal, the north of Norway. Nine of them, because that felt like the right number to be slightly embarrassed by.
There is a diploma on the wall of the workshop with a date on it that had not happened yet when I ordered the picture. It has happened now. That was in June, and it is the first thing on the picture that moved from the future into the past, which is a stranger feeling than I expected.
My dog Aro is asleep by the front wheel, and my father's old toolbox is open on the ground, because he gave it to me when I said I was going to do this and did not ask any further questions.
Nothing on this picture is a memory except the dog and the toolbox.
The rest is a list, and I am working through it.