– In my Grandmother’s memory
One last wave; one last handkerchief trip from sleeve to face to round up the tears; and she was gone, carrying a shattered heart that will take her away, forever, 10 months later. Long thereafter, my weeks were fractured, right in the middle.
“How many more boxes?” The question pulled me out of my reverie as a tug out of dark, deep, engulfing water.
Here we were, putting carefully away, in so many boxes, children books, our entire childhood encased in cartons. “How many would you be able to take?” I asked, thinking save.
The man I addressed, a family friend, seemed annoyed. “Well, there is only so much room in the car… And, besides, why would you like to keep all this rubbish?” I flinched at the words, taking a step back, as trying to escape such blasphemy. Rubbish?!? Our beloved books were most certainly not rubbish! I should have protested, but this was just another indignity in what seemed to be a never ending line of recent affronts.
“We would like you to take as many as possible. These are not just a bunch of written pages, these are memories; wonderful, irreplaceable, priceless memories,” I managed to vocalize while fighting my indignation and trying to sound determined. In reality, I felt defeated, resigned and all but ready to relinquish possession of almost everything I held so dear.
**********
So much for my daydreaming… It only took the unkind words of the man with the boxes to bring back the dreaded and painful feeling, the realization of the harrowing reality: I was standing, at that very moment, in an apartment that was no longer ours, in a room that belonged to someone else. I was a visitor in my own universe. Home was no longer the best place in the world for the simple fact that it no longer existed.
In a country that was barely out of a decades-long communist era (mid-90s Romania), the room I shared with my sister was a reflection of the times: quaint locally-produced furniture, crocheted doily inspired drapes, big headed, rubbery, Romanian dolls that I adored (the doctor, the sailor, the chimney sweeper) and books (many, many books). Needless to say, our cultural and literary references mirrored the political climate. And so it was that my most beloved childhood memories were linked to volumes such as The Adventures of Neznaika and His Friends by Nikolay Nosov, The Three Fat Men by Yury Olesha, and The Adventures of the Little Onion by Gianni Rodari.
**********
This hot, dusty and quiet weekend July day was anything but ordinary. It could have been a joyful summer vacation moment, but it wasn’t; it could have been a merry family gathering, but it wasn’t; it could have been a happy goodbye, but it wasn’t… I should have been the one comforting her, offering some kind of reassurance, but I wasn’t…
One look at me… Overpowered by an avalanche of thoughts and feelings, here I was adrift and disorientated, bewildered and addle, completely and utterly lost. She stepped in instead trying to encourage me.
“Always remember this: you have kindness on your side, but an extraordinary destiny comes with epic struggles. Dazzling results only come from legendary battles. Yearning that doesn’t fade in time is the sign of the path to follow – never ignore it; it’s a gift. I see it in your eyes, the fear of being squandered. I wish you could put it away. Never forget, you are a lot stronger that you think.”
Hopeless attempt, falling on deaf ears – I was resentful and not to be deterred. “I will always remember this day,” I said with a grudge. “Summery, uselessly sunny, Wednesday.” The last words came out as a bullet, with a vengeance.
Her soft hand – forsaken but steady – was cradling mine – grief-stricken, quivering, and bereft. Gazing into my eyes, soul to soul, she whispered, “Not every day is a Wednesday.”to soul, she whispered, “Not every day is a Wednesday.”
