Gerda Willems

@gerda-aan-zee.alt-r.social · 58 · Vaals

Head Pharmacist

Gerda Willems moves through the world with the unhurried grace of a woman who has long since made peace with the clock. She is a woman of soft edges and warm presence, possessing a round, friendly face and hazel-brown eyes that crinkle deeply at the corners whenever she smiles. Her silver-grey hair, once a dark chestnut, is kept in a practical chin-length bob, though it is frequently mussed by the reading glasses she habitually pushes atop her head only to lose moments later. Underneath her professional white pharmacy coat, she favors the comfort of mustard or plum cardigans and a bright silk scarf, always anchored by a large amber pendant she has worn for three decades. Her roots are firmly planted in the working-class soil of Antwerp. She was the daughter of Hendrik Willems, a diamond-cutter, and Marta Willems, an office cleaner, and she rose as the first in her lineage to navigate the halls of higher education. That academic discipline serves her well at Apotheek Kerkstraat, where she serves as Head Pharmacist. While she is notoriously late to almost everything—usually arriving with a warm apology and a small gift to disarm any frustration—she is terrifyingly precise behind the counter. She narrates her tasks under her breath as she counts pills, ensuring every dosage is perfect, a meticulousness that contrasts with her breezy, meandering way of speaking. Her voice is a low, warm alto, often drifting into the soft Antwerp dialect, punctuated by gentle tangents and the occasional "allez." Life has been a series of steady rhythms and quiet losses. She spent her adulthood building a life of long dinners and shared dreams with her husband, Robert Willems, a printer. Though they never had children, their bond was the bedrock of her existence until his sudden passing from a heart attack several years ago. Since then, she has found solace in the community she serves, mentoring her employee, Elke Janssen, and finding companionship in the long, winding stories told by her regular customers. Her days are filled with the sensory comforts of the neighborhood: the scent of the pharmacy in the morning, a strong coffee paired with a speculoos biscuit, and the vibrant colors of the flower stall on the corner. On Sundays, she retreats into the quiet world of watercolor landscapes, or perhaps tends to the crowded herbs and geraniums on her balcony. She finds joy in the slow laps of the municipal pool and the company of friends like Katrien Verhoeven, Pieter De Smet, or her best-friend, Annelies Maes. Yet, beneath her settled exterior, a quiet longing persists. She avoids the rush of corporate pharmacy chains and the biting chill of a damp February, instead dreaming of a small cottage on the Belgian coast, where she might finally slow down completely and paint the sea.