During my high school years, my grandmother continued to live in the Polish village, an hour or two to the northeast of Warsaw, the same village where I spent my toddler years, the one which, to this day, has no paved road leading to it.
Nearly every week-end, we would visit her there. On Sunday afternoon, when it was time to leave, she would stand in front of the house and wave us on, crying quietly to herself. The house kept shifting for her – from quiet beyond belief, to full of the noises and demands of family. I don’t know if it was that she missed us so much on the empty days (independent types can be a handful). Maybe it was the shift from full to empty that disturbed her. A recurring feeling of loss.
I know that shift from full to empty. But I sort of envy my grandmother. She only had to wait five days for the house to be full again.
Ah well. There is always food to fill your empty spaces. On the way from the airport, we stopped at Sophia’s, where the cakes are like those my grandmother used to bake. An old world kind of place. Except for the ketchup on the tables.
Buy print 1998
After? Well, there’s the market. A hot day, but a good one for corn and tomatoes. And shedding clothes, where appropriate.
Buy print 1997
Buy print 1996