An Old Black Marble
Copyright © 2012 by Florin Nicoara



All Rights Reserved



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Prologue



I tossed it, than yanked on it, and she jumped.  She was so funny.  I pulled on it slowly, gently tugging at the yarn and the bundled newspaper at the other end hopped a few inches with every tug.  Paulina was focused.  Her jaw was resting on her front paws while her rear end was up in the air.  She would occasionally shake it from side to side just before pouncing.  I gently yanked on the yarn and her butt started shaking.  I knew she was ready to pounce again, so I snapped back on the yarn just as Paulina leaped forward.  She missed the paper ball but I did not miss my Mother’s calf; as I flung my arm back.

 “Darn it Cepi!  Didn’t I tell you to go to sleep!  If I have to say it again I’ll say it with this spoon across your back.”  My Mother snarled from above shaking her big wooden spoon down at me.  Saying nothing I inched closer to my nest a couple of feet away.  My Mother turned back to the stove where she was nursing a pot of boiling cabbage stew. 

Paulina was now on her side holding the paper ball with her front paws while kicking at it with her rear legs and tearing at it with her teeth.  What a funny cat Paulina, I thought.  I reached for the bundled newspaper and tried to take it from her, but Paulina held on to it tight.  I started tugging harder and for a moment the cat and I were in a tug of war… but a sharp pain across my back forced me to let go, as my body lurched away from Paulina and onto my seat.  I stared up at my Mother as my eyes began moistening away.

“What did I tell you?  Now leave that cat alone and go to sleep.”  My eyes welled up with tears as I started dragging myself into my nest.  A second later I heard my Mother’s voice behind me asking Mircea to get her a bundle of dried dill from the wall of our pantry.  I was half heartedly crawling into my nest as I watched my eldest brother step out of the room.  The minute he disappeared behind the door’s frame… I bolted behind him.  I heard my Mother’s voice yelling after me, but I paid no mind.  I ran out into the darkness. 

I ran past my brother, than past the well, past our enclosed garden, and then slowed to a walk as I crossed the foot bridge over my favorite little stream.  I walked up the foot path and then through the fresh spring grass to my friend the cherry tree not far away.  I sat against its trunk and that is when I realized I was scared.  It was dark, and the nearly full moon was lighting up the night in an eerie black and white glow.  It was still early spring so the tree had not sprouted its leaves yet.  Its naked gnarled branches were casting eerie shadows on the moonlit ground.  I realized that my friend the cherry tree was not so friendly in the dark.  My fear was growing.  Maybe running there was not the best idea after all… but I was still mad! 

I forced the fear out of my mind.  I did not care about it.  I was mad, but glad I was away from my Mother, until I heard a sound.  Someone or something was crossing the little foot bridge coming up my way.  My heart jumped into my throat.  Suddenly every monster out of every fairytale I had ever heard came to life and I was terrified.  In an instant I was now ready to run back to my nest, but how?  My path was blocked by whatever was coming at me.  I could feel a second round of tears welling up behind my eyes, this time from terror… but then I heard my brother’s voice calling out to me.  It was Ovi, my other brother.  My heart settled back into my chest. 

“What are you doing?”  I heard Ovi’s gentle voice as I watched his black silhouette approach.  I did not answer.  He then asked me to follow him back home, but I refused. 

“Ok, then I’ll sit here with you.”  He said as he squatted next to me against the tree.  We sat there quietly for a moment, but then Ovi broke the silence with excitement in his tone.

“Did you see that!”  The energy in his voice startled me out of my stupor.  He was looking up trough the naked branches at the sky.  I followed his eye line.  

“Just keep looking, and you will see real life magic.”

“What?”  I asked mostly annoyed, but a little curious.   

“Keep looking.” 

Although ten years older then myself, Ovi was my only friend in the world, and even he was annoying me in that moment.  I was sure he was trying to trick me.  He always did when I was sad, to make me feel better, and I always fell for it, but this time I would not.  I decided to look away from the sky and resist being tricked again… but my resistance, my anger, my annoyance, all of it vanished when I saw a streak of light shoot above the naked branches just before I could pull my gaze away. 

“What was that?” I almost jumped form the surprise.  Ovi smiled and said that it was a falling star. 

“No way, that’s only in fairy tales!” I responded excitedly.  My brother than explained that not all fairytales were make believe, and that stars really did sometimes fall form the sky.

“How?”  I asked, loosing myself in his words. 

“Nobody knows.  That’s why sometimes at night I come here and watch the sky.”  He paused holding my eyes with his gaze.   “Sometimes there is as much magic in the world as in the fanciest of fairytales.”  He finally broke the silence.  We then both looked up through the naked branches waiting for the world to show us its magic again. 

I stared at that glittering night sky with peace in my heart.  Any anger I may have felt before had been carried away by that streak across the sky.  My mind now relished in the certainty that magic was real and I was witnessing it with my own eyes.

I jumped in excitement as I saw another streak of light shoot above the claw-like naked branches of my favorite tree. 

“Are they really stars?”  I asked eager and excited.

“Of course.”

“And where do they fall?” 

“Nobody knows… but, if you ever find one…”  He interrupted his sentence and looked at me with focus in his eyes.

“What?”  I snapped impatiently. 

“Anything you want... you will have.”  I studied Ovi’s face to see if he was pulling my leg, but his face was as serious as could be.  I knew it was just a fairy tale like the many others my brother told me, but it did not matter, because I liked it.

“Come on lets go home.”  He cut trough my thoughts as he got up, but I refused.  I insisted I wanted to remain.  I wanted to see another falling star.  In fact, I wanted to see where it would fall so that I could find it the next morning. 

Ovi laughed at my suggestion.  He said that finding a fallen star was harder than looking into the face of God so I should not bother with the idea.  His statement annoyed me, and suddenly I was back being just as angry as I had been before.  I told him to go back alone because I was staying behind. 

“I’ll make you a deal.  Come with me and I’ll tell you your favorite story.  Then tomorrow we’ll look for a fallen star.” 

I agreed.  We headed for the house.
















































Part I: The Cut



 *** 1 ***

Cut or Scratch Again


I was a wind, or maybe I was running, I could not really tell.  I was as light as the thoughts in my mind, yet I was real.  Everything was real.  I was not dreaming even though my memories were dreamlike.  They were ancient faded thoughts, so old, so ancient and forgotten that they were new to me.  They seemed almost unreal, well almost, but once the flood gates burst my past came crashing down on me with all the realness that my simple mind could muster.

I could not see myself in it, the memory, but I could see all around me.  Like a feather in the wind, I was flying, but then I remembered that in fact I was running.  I was in the place where I felt most free.  There I would run for what seemed like endless hours while in my mind I was flying; flying like the birds and floating like the butterflies.  It was the grassy field behind our little homestead just across my favorite little stream. 

It was about waist high, the grass, and all the tall flowery blades blended into a blur as they rushed past me in my haste.  I remember that I was not supposed to play there, but I just could not help myself.  It was the breeze.  It pushed me with its liveliness.  Sometimes I would watch in awe as the breeze caressed the tips of the grassy plain forcing the whole lot into a dance of whirling ripples like those on a pond.  It made the hills shudder and sway like the hide of a living being.  It made me think I was like a little flea, living on the skin of the earth, whatever the earth was.  I tried to imagine the earth, and since it seemed to be alive, and I was its flea, and the grasses its hair, than maybe the earth was like a big cow. 

Oh well, that was one thought, there were so many others.  Everything was fascinating and so new.  If people were the fleas on the big cow called earth, and the plants were its hair, than what were the animals I wondered?  What were all those mysterious little creatures; the grasshoppers, the beetles, and the crickets that made so much noise?  How about all the nasty flies that irritated our cows or those beautiful butterflies I loved so much?  I would wonder, and then I would run. 

The thoughts were fragmented.  Short, deep, and full of wonder, but my body always won out.  I was restless.  I could not stand still.  There was so much energy inside of me it was akin to madness.  I had to move or otherwise I might simply explode, so I ran, until the crickets creaking would stop me in my tracks.  I both hated and loved those little buggers.  I hated that I could not catch them, but admired the power of their songs. 

How could such little beings, make so much sound, my mind would wonder.  I wanted to discover their secret so stalked them.  I would focus my attention on a song… then lunge, only to discover that the incessant music was coming from somewhere else entirely.  Every time I moved, so did their song.  How did they do that?  Were they watching me?  Did they know I was trying to catch them?  They must have, because I could never find them, and it made me sad to think that I was outsmarted by a cricket.  What a wonder this world!

The memory was as vivid as the day I lived it.  I was about six I think, or maybe seven, can not quite remember, and I was in my playground.  It was the field just north of my favorite stream, where my Father grew the grass that in the summer he would scythe down and pile into great mounds of hay.  It was the food for our animals, and it had to last them through the winter.  We had just enough without a foot to spare, so it was an off limits area for me.  My Father did not want me trampling the grasses ruining his hay crop, but I was too young for those concerns, and I loved that place too much.  It was my playground and the butterflies and crickets, the little beetles and all those nasty flies, those were my toys, but of course at the time I did not call them that.  I had never heard of toys.  I only knew of trees that became castles, rocks that became tools and sticks that became weapons and magical devices.

That was my life and those were my toys, and sometimes even my friends, and I was happy.  Growing up in the Maramureş region of Romania in the nineteen thirties we were as far away from the modern world as Timbuktu.  I did not know of automobiles, films, electricity, or any of the new technological wonders of the day.  Mine was a simple but a happy life, and with so much space, and so much to do, I did not have time to know of sadness.  The only pain I knew came from the little cuts and scratches I got from playing, and sometimes working, and boy did I cry every time I got a new one.  The pain was so terrible, so unbearable.  I would cry and cry and I would wonder; why was pain so painful?  I just could not understand how anything could hurt that bad.

It was beautifully blue, the sky, fluffed with puffy clouds here, there, everywhere, and it was hot.  I could feel it through my old thorn shirt.  I was wearing the only outfit I had to wear, a little white hemp tunic, and my little white hemp britches.  Summer time meant barefoot, and that day was no exception.

My face was pointed towards the sky, but my eyes were locked on the fluttering of a butterfly.  I was waiting for it.  I followed it with my eyes until the little creature landed on a flower.  I cautiously approached, getting closer and closer, until my face was two feet from the little beast.

I watched attentively and I noticed that where its mouth was supposed to be, instead, it had a long coiled hair which the little creature unwound and then pushed into the flower’s center.  I figured it was like a little arm, and it was collecting something it liked from the little flower.  I stared enthralled by the magic of this little being.  Even so small it knew what it wanted and how to get it.  I wanted to ask the butterfly what was in that flower that it seemed to like so much, but I knew I couldn’t…  “Pow!”

I recoiled as an otherworldly noise shattered my attention.  My eyes instinctively started scanning my surroundings.  I was not used to loud noises, and this one was loud… so loud in fact is sent my heart fluttering with dread.  Something was wrong.  The sound; it was strange, unnatural, out of place, unsettling.  My little heart was racing from the stress of the strangeness.

I looked to what was familiar; the cherry tree, up the gentle hill to my right, but the piercing sound had come from the north, from over the hillcrest, from up wind.  I stared in the direction without moving, frozen on the spot.  Something about that sound frightened me at a level that my little six year old mind had never felt before.  My body was numbed with fear, yet I was not scared, not the way I understood it.  My mind was curious, in wonder, while my body shivered.  Every part of my body told me to run, yet my mind was more interested in knowing than running.  Then I remembered…

“Ovi!” He was there on the other side of the crest with his scythe, cutting down the grass.  That is where the sound came from.  That thought rejuvenated me.  I felt the pressure of fear leave my body and turn into energy.  I bolted off the spot heading towards the crest… “Pow! Pow!”

Two more rapid blasts stopped me frozen in fear again.  What the hell were those sounds?  They were piercingly loud, but not heavy and strong like thunder, yet they echoed all across the valley like thunder in a storm does. 

Once again, fueled by the strength of curiosity I moved forward in spite of my bodily fear, but this time with a more cautious stride.  After a few steps I heard new sounds, like human voices, but they did not seem to be saying anything at all.  It sounded like someone trying to speak, but not really knowing how.  The yells were aggressive, harsh, like someone was angry, yet they were incomprehensible. 

The voices instantly escalated my sense of fear, but my curiosity was overwhelming.  I needed to see.  I had to see what was going on, and I knew my brother was there.  Ovi was the best brother anyone could have and I knew I would be safe once I was there with him. 

I loved my brother Ovidiu more than anything else in the world.  He was the fourth child in our family, five years younger than Mircea who was the oldest, and three years older than our sister Viorica who was the fifth child.  My other two brothers, second oldest Nelu, and third oldest Dumitru, I could not remember, I only knew of them.  They worked as indentured servants on far away farms since before I could remember. 

Ovi was sixteen years old and somehow he got to escape doing his time as an indentured servant.  I was the youngest, and of my five siblings Ovi was the only one I could truly call a brother.  He was the only one who found time to play with me.  He was the one who told me stories, and he was the only one who had the patience to teach me the things I knew. 

Mircea was aloof and distant, and only spoke to me when he was giving me orders.  Viorica was a strange girl.  She was morose and quiet, but Ovi, Ovi was funny and smart.  If I had a problem he was the one who always had a solution.  Ovi had patience, and he was the only one who never shushed me away because I was a bother, nor ever snapped or yelled at me.  Ovi was my world. 

As I crested the hill I immediately noticed someone running.  It was Ovi!  He was running through the tall grass… Ovi never ran through the tall grass.  I was the only one who could get away with breaking that rule.  Something was wrong.  There was something wrong with the way he was running.  He was hunched forward.  I could not see his face; only the top of his head.  He was awkward, struggling like… “Pow!” …again… the shock of the unexpected sound made me jump in a shiver. 

The loud ‘pop’ expanded my vision and I was no longer just seeing my brother, but the whole valley and forest in the distance.  Between the forest and my brother I saw several men.  They were running.  They were running after Ovi and they were yelling, but their yells made no sense.  Then I suddenly figured it out.  They must be speaking Hungarian.  I had heard people speak Hungarian before and it made no sense to me. 

I focused on them.  They did not look like any Hungarians I had ever seen.  They were all wearing the same clothes.  Then I saw one stop and raise something that looked like a shepard’s staff up to his shoulder and… “Pow!” …my body clenched once more.  I stared confused at the staff as smoke whiffed out of its pointy end.  Without knowing exactly how I knew it was a weapon, and in that instant the reality of the scene struck me with a cold chill of horror.  Those men were chasing my brother, and they were trying to hurt him.  I stood atop of that hill petrified unable to think or act in any way. 

I moved my eyes to Ovi.  He was hardly fifty feet away.  His movements seemed heavy and hard, as if the air was thick and sticky making every step forward strained.  He finally looked up and I saw his face, but when I saw his eyes… I hardly recognized him.  The face was his, but the Ovi I knew was not there.  I could not understand, but I could feel.  His face had no life, no laughter, no strength, and all I could feel was fear.  My brother was the strongest being I knew, but that creature struggling towards me had no strength at all. 

His eyes locked onto mine and that instantly drew my tears.  My mind could not understand what it was seeing, but my body felt it, and all it could feel was death.  His eyes were still alive, but dying.  I could feel his sadness, a sadness so deep that it cut me to pieces.  I felt a surge of rage.  It energized me.  My body tensed and cocked ready to spring, to run forward and help my brother when… “Pow!” …another blast echoed just behind him.  In front of my eyes I saw Ovi’s torso violently arch as his head and arms flung back towards the fluffy blue sky… then his body collapsed out of sight vanishing in an abyss of tall grass.  Ovi was gone.  

Past Ovi’s abyss, one of those men who could not speak was standing with one of those staffs in front of his face.  It was pointing to where Ovi used to be.  Smoke was whiffing out of its pointy end.  Before I could make sense of the image the man lowered his stick and started running towards the place where my brother fell while the other men followed from behind. 

I wanted to run to my brother, but I could not.  Time disappeared, and now all the men were gathered around the abyss.  I saw them standing around… “Pow!” … my little body jerked.  I noticed one man with his stick pointing down where my brother vanished.  A light haze of smoke whiffed upwards from the abyss.  He casually swung the stick and hooked it around his shoulder by a chord, and then they all started walking towards me.  I had no feelings, no emotions.  I was numb.  I did not move. 

As the men approached I was no longer alive.  I no longer felt the urgency or the need to run.  I could no longer hear the crickets, or see the grasses sway in the breeze.  I could see the sky, but it was no longer blue, and when I looked to where Ovi had been cutting grass, he was no longer there.



I stared at the blue sky.  It was clear, soft, and gentle, and I could hear my grandkids’ happy yells.  I looked past the pool to where they were playing.  I looked at them, and then past them at my memory.  This was something I had long ago forgotten but now it was as fresh as if I had just lived it, and my old mind felt ready to collapse under the pressure. 

I squirmed in my lounge.  My twelve hundred chaise lounge was no longer comfortable.  I turned right, then I turned left, but I knew.  I knew I was simply trying to turn away from my thoughts.  I had to.   I tried once more to distract myself by looking at my playing grandchildren and their friends.  It was futile.  My thoughts rushed past my grandchildren, past my vineyards, past my northern California estate and back to those terrible soldiers.  For the first time in sixty years of life I remembered what happened to my brother Ovi on that day so long ago.  I now understood that those men were Russian soldiers out scavenging the countryside for food, alcohol, and sex. 

I was no longer seeing my past in a vivid daydream, but my memory was clear.  After killing my brother Ovi the soldiers dragged me back to the house, which on that day was being tended by my oldest brother Mircea, and my sister Viorica.  They beat up Mircea, raped my thirteen year old sister Viorica, and then took our pigs, chickens, and everything else they could hoard when they left. 

My parents were away, but when they got back home… well, there is not much that I have to say is there?  Let’s just say that it was the first time I had ever seen my Father cry.  That evening everybody cried.  The only person who did not cry that evening was me.  I was all cried out.  After that day I never once cried from the pain of a little cut or a scratch again.

*** 2 ***

Strong Like Me



I woke up that morning without the neurosis of the days before.  I felt good.  I walked out of my bedroom onto my private balcony overlooking my grapevines and the valley below.  I took in a breath and absorbed the view.  Even after all these years it was still hard to accept that most of what was in front of my eyes was mine.  A mansion, in northern California, a vineyard on acres of land… when I thought back from where I had started... I could not help but feel proud of what I had achieved.  I looked at it all and drank in the horizon, and just as I was about to reach my climax of satisfaction…  my thoughts were interrupted by that now familiar cancerous knot that had started squeezing the life out of my heart so many years ago.  

In a flash I was gripped with fear.  What if none of this was mine?  What if I was still dreaming?  Maybe I was still back there, a little boy, scared out of my mind, dreaming myself into a world that I could have never possibly achieved. 

My chest was tightening.  I could physically feel the knot.  It was like a hard lump, a black cold glassy mass taking up one half of my heart, then constricting what was left around it.  I looked into the horizon and my spirit sank.  I was an old man.  I had lived a hard life, and in the end I did achieve something.  In fact I had it all, so I just could not understand, why.  Why after everything?  After my long struggle, after all my wealth, after defeating my struggle, in the end life rewarded me… with a cancer. I shuddered; then forced those thoughts away with a hard exhalation.  Today was Sunday.  Today was not a day for such thoughts.  I looked at the clear blue sky and saw a beautiful morning ahead of me.  I reminded myself, it was my day.

It was still pretty early, about ten in the morning, and the Northern California sky was crisp and clear.  It was warm yet comfortable, and dry just the way I liked it.  The sun’s rays were gentle on my skin, and when it seemed that its warmth was turning into heat, a swift cool breeze would whiz across the land bringing all things back into balance. 

I had just laid out by the pool on my favorite lounge with a glass of fresh orange juice.  It was my spot from where I could see all that my wealth had given me in my old age.  I was a king and I had a castle, and in that moment I felt good. 

As usual my mind faded into a random day dream until a shout snapped my gaze towards the kids.  They were on the other side of the pool, by the house, concocting some new game with their creative little minds.  I watched with a smile as I took a sip of my juice, and then gently placed it on the side table next to me, when a flicker, next to the sun, took my attention from the kids.  I squinted my eyes to unveil the blackened flutter from the glare of the sun’s light.  It was a butterfly dancing in the air just a few feet away.  The little creature was flailing seemingly out of control, but it was clear that he was flying with purpose.  I watched him as he hovered for a while in roughly the same spot.  The breeze nudged him, pushed him, but he quickly adjusted and found his place again. 

As I stared at the little creature he quickly drew me into his hypnotic dance.  A thought flashed through my mind, ‘He was dancing for me’, but quicker than I could think he seemed to change his intention and gently landed on the edge of my glass of juice.  I watched him closely, and I could see the hair like proboscis that was his mouth uncoiling as he dipped it into the orange drink. 

His big cumbersome yellow wings flapped flat to horizontal, and than back together to vertical.  He seemed to work on his balance while at the same time working his long thin tube into the drink sucking out his sweet treat.  Then it hit me, déjà vu, I had done this before, but when?  I could anticipate every movement that the butterfly was going to make.  I knew exactly what it was going to do.  I was certain I had lived this moment in time, and for a second I could almost see that other moment…

“Ahhhhhh” …but a loud scream snapped me out of my reverie.  It was my grandson, Nico.  He was running, breaking away from his frenzied pack of friends with an ice cream cone in his hand and a face aglow with a smile as large as life itself.  He was exuberant with joy, so much so, it seemed he was about to burst.  He was running in my direction seemingly falling on his face yet somehow managing not to as if held up by his loud laughter and joy.  My eyes locked on him as he bounced towards me, and that is when it struck me.  His little angelic face, that smiling monster that was the expression of pure happiness was desecrated under a slathering of gooey slimy ice cream.  The cold cream concoction was dripping off its melting cone and it was smudged from his face to his chest, yet little Nico was beyond oblivious of his messy state.  He was too overjoyed to notice any sticky discomfort, but as he got closer my eyes lost the angel, and locked on the grizzly goop that was his face and chest.  I could no longer see a happy little boy, but a careless undisciplined mess stumbling towards me like an avalanche. 

My muscles flexed, my stomach tensed, and I felt something ancient explode out to the surface.  I rose on my seat with force.  My eyes turned hard and without conscious volition I heard a strange voice erupt from somewhere deep beyond me.  A hard angry voice bellowed out of my chest…

“Nico Stop!  Come here now!”  The little angel froze dead in his tracks.  His smile vanished, and all that was left was the slather.  His eyes turned round as he stood there staring at me more confused than threatened by my aggressive my tone.  His little eyes were locked on mine.  He was not afraid, rather bewildered by my inexplicable attack.  The confusion on his little face turned the ripple of anger in my chest inward, and in an instant I lost myself in another world.   

It was still early, a few hours before noon, but yet that morning still felt like an eternity.  My parents had left before sunrise to make the four hour trip to market.  I knew they would not be back till late at night.  My sister Viorica and my oldest brother Mircea were helping out a neighbor, and with Ovi gone and my two older brothers away somewhere for so long I had forgotten they existed, I was left master of the homestead that day all by myself.  I was eight years old, all alone, and responsible for all the chores.  I tried putting on a brave face, but it was the first time I was completely alone, and no mater how hard I tried I could not help but be a little scared. 

I was used to feeding the animals on my own but on this day it was somehow different without another soul around.  There were no voices, just the sounds of the world, and I had never noticed how eerie the world could be.  I did not feel as much scared as I felt naked, exposed, as if a blanket of security had been lifted.  Through every chore, to every place I went, I was haunted by a nagging feeling that kept forcing me to look over my shoulder.  It was a nervous discomfort, a sense that there was something just behind me, ready to pounce on me, yet every time I looked, there was nothing there… yet I could feel it.

As morning turned to day I kept busy.  The chores kept my mind at ease… a bit.  Boy was that day long.  I kept going back and forth between the house and the barn, or the chicken coop and the garden.  I drew water from the well and poured it into the trough just outside the barn even though it was already full, and I was spilling most of the water over the side.  I had to keep busy.  It was all I could do.

This was the time just before the second Great War, even though at the time I did not know there had already been a first one.  Where I lived we had no newspapers, no news reels, in fact we had no electricity.  The modern age had bypassed that place entirely.  Our lifestyle had not changed in a thousand years.  We lived a simple life.  We had some pigs, two cows, a few chickens, and some ducks.  We had a little vegetable garden, some fields to grow corn, potatoes, or wheat, and a well from which to drink our water.  Much of the rest of Europe was by this time basking in the glow of electricity, traveling in cars, listening to recorded music and watching films in cinemas, but I knew of no such things.  Those things did not exist in my universe.  My world, like everyone else’s in that region was far simpler with no technological distraction or objects to desire.  We lived of the land, at the mercy of the seasons, with nothing to disconnect us from the earth and God.  We relied on our neighbors and they relied on us.  We gave to the earth, and earth gave back to us.  It seems almost romantic, even idyllic, being part of a community; giving our energy into the earth so that the earth can feed it back to us.  It all seems so idyllic, doesn’t it?  Well, it just seems that way. 

Calendars were another thing I was not aware of back then.  Nineteen thirty nine had no meaning to my parents so they never spoke of years in terms of numbers, thus I never knew them as such.  We spoke of years by growing seasons, and we remembered past years by how good or bad the season was.  By whether we were plighted by floods or droughts, or threatened by wars or bad behavior from the boyars.  That was our calendar.  

That summer had been long and dry, just like the two summers before it, and the bad harvests had made life difficult for the peasants of the land like my family.  The boyars who were our masters, although at the time I did not know why, did not help much.  They did not care about the weather or our hunger.  There were quotas they needed met, and whether we had enough grain or not we had to give them what they claimed.  Why we had to give them what we grew I did not know.  I just knew that is the way it was, and that year was not a good year.  We gave everything away, so we struggled just to survive, to survive the hunger, and boy was I hungry. 

Without another soul to talk to, all I could think about was eating.  Carrying all that water, bringing extra logs into the house, all the little extra chores I did to keep busy that I did not need to do had made me even hungrier. 

Man, the day was hot.  The sun was a few hours past midday.  My skin was sticky from the drying sweat, and my stomach was rumbling and grumbling.  That morning I ate breakfast with Mircea and Viorica before they left.  We all ate a bit of polenta in milk.  The same thing we ate every day, but that was the last of the polenta, and I had already eaten the piece of bread and onion that my parents had left me for lunch.

Not knowing what else to do I headed down to one of my few friends; the little stream that delineated the far end of our property.  He was the only friend I had that now talked back to me.  In fact he sang.  He sang and was the conductor of a full symphony.  The splash of the clear mountain water dancing over the rocks at the beat of the wind was my music.  While my friend the stream held the tone, the crickets maintained the chorus, and the chirping birds provided the melody.  Those were my friends and they entertained me, so much so, that at times I would lose myself for hours in the sounds of their music. 

I was sitting under a huge mulberry tree on the edge of the stream inside our property, and I quickly remembered how purple my feet got after playing under that tree just a few weeks earlier.  I thought back to those days when the branches were heavy with the black and purple treats.  Man was I craving mulberries now, but the season had come and gone.  I looked past the stream to my best friend the cherry three, but like the mulberries, their time had also passed.

I got up and strolled down the stream collecting pebbles, wishing they were fruit.  Man it was hot.  I had to turn back and hide under the shade of the mulberry tree.  I was enduring too much hunger to unnecessarily suffer the heat.  I leaned against the tree with a fistful of pebbles.  I looked at them, and then casually tossed one into a calm corner of the stream.  I watched the pebble crack the water’s surface splashing it into a rippling dance.  My little friend not only sang, but danced, so I threw another pebble.  Then another, and another, until my mind got lost in the dancing ripples, and for a moment I forgot my stomach.  For a moment… yet it was in that moment when it happened.  That is when the wretched thought lit up my mind... and then my stomach.  It came so swiftly that I could have missed it, but I did not, and man I wish I had, but the thought, as gentle as it was, it stuck.  I tried to forget it, but there seemed to be no way around it.  The harder I tried, the more glued it became, and it only took seconds before it completely took over my brain, then my body, and eventually my will. 

In the spring of that year a neighbor had come upon some good fortune and slaughtered a pig in celebration.  As repayment for a debt he owed my Father, he handed us a hulking slab of meat, an entire back leg.  The cured reward was immediately placed in our little smoke house, in the attic of our home.  My Father made it crystal clear that the meat was to be portioned by him only, because it had to last the entire summer.  It was the only meat we had to spare that year. 

I can not remember which splash it was, maybe the sixth, or maybe the seventh, but as it hit; as the pebble cracked through the surface, as it disappeared under the splash, and as the ripples rolled away from the point of impact... my mind lit up with meat.  It was a jolt.  I felt it everywhere, but mostly in my stomach.  I was hungry as hell, and just yards away there was a big hulking slab of smoked meat; a one hundred pound chunk of șuncȃ hanging in our smoke house.

I stared at the stream, completely lost.  I forgot I had been throwing stones.  I snapped back but I was suffering, so I forced my gaze to a little yellow flower, and then out into the distance.  I kept looking at different things, but hard as I tried I could not shake it.  I was squirming in my skin.  My hunger was now turmoil.  I was getting angry.  I was confused.  A minute earlier I had been just as hungry, so why was it all of a sudden so much worse?  I tried to remember the games I liked to play.  I tried to remember the butterflies, the crickets, and the bugs; anything, but my stubborn mind, that stubborn hungry mind just would not concede. 

I tried forcing myself to remember the first time I successfully climbed that monster of a tree and the feeling of conquering the world I experienced, but my mind, it did not care.  All it wanted was the sweet pungent smell of smoked meat.  I was trying to focus on the world, but my mind was cruising through a parade of flavors and intoxicating smells of food.  While my body struggled in hunger and heat, my mind was circling like a vulture around that slab of smoked meat.

I do not know how long I withstood the conflict between my mind and my stomach, but with the speed of a jumping grasshopper I was on my feet.  My body started walking, but somehow my mind was still by the stream, still trying to hold on, but fading, and then it just seemed to go away all together.

I can not remember the walk from the stream to the house, I just remember picking up the little knife, climbing up the little wooden latter into the attic, and staring at that hulking slab of sweet smoked meat.  The aroma of that slab of șuncȃ was richer then life itself.  I took in a whiff and for a second I felt like I had gone to heaven.  In fact in that moment I understood that heaven smelled like smoked meat. 

I looked at the slab of ham.  Then a thought, a faint alarm, a distant vestige of myself brought me back to my senses, for a moment.  For a second the meat no longer smelled as good.  I knew I was not supposed to do it.  It was wrong, but it was just a memory of what I knew was right.  A momentary lapse that faded as quickly as it had come.

I slowly stepped closer to the hanging meat.  It was perfectly placed, the right height, as if it had been waiting specifically for me this entire time.  I had a moment’s hesitation, but then I knew it was all right.  The meat was big, and I would only slice off a small piece.  I was a small kid.  All I needed was a small piece.  Just enough to make my stomach happy, and no one would ever notice.  No one would be the wiser.  So I sliced off a sliver. 

The knife’s blade worked like an amplifier intensifying the rich aroma meat.  I brought the piece to my mouth and bit into the șuncȃ.  My body shivered under the avalanche of pleasure.  I could not believe the richness of the flavor.  I had never in my life experienced anything so intense.  I had eaten from that meat before, but it was always with bread, or polenta, with cheese, onions, peppers, or carrots.  Usually my share was very small, more a condiment than a real treat.  I had never before in my life chewed a decent size chunk of plain smoked meat. 

The flavor was agonizing.  I could not believe that anything could taste so good.  I chewed and chewed until there was nothing left to chew.  I almost did not want to swallow the flavor was so intoxicating, so I held it for posterity but it quickly melted away, yet not my hunger.  I stared at the hunk of ham.  It was huge, almost as big as me.  I had only peeled off a slice no bigger than a coin.  It was nothing.  I needed more.  I was hungrier than ever.  Without a thought I sliced another, and after relishing all I could from that piece, one more, and a little later another, and then another and another… and before I knew it, a whole chunk, a fistful of the meat was gone.  It did not matter.  In fact I really did not notice.  I did not even care.  My stomach was filled with food, and I was filled with peace.  Hunger was a forgotten memory.  My stomach was happy, and so was I. 

I casually climbed down the ladder and placed the knife back on the table.  I stepped outside and breathed in the beauty of that hot late afternoon.  What a beautiful day it was.  I was surprised I had not noticed it before. 

My chores were done so I strolled back to my spot, and soaked in all the beauty that life was offering me in that moment.  I splashed more pebbles into the stream.  Built structures out of sticks, and never once did I think about that meat.  My mind and body were at peace, the weather was fantastic, and life was good.

I remember that it was Mircea and Viorica that got home first, and then my parents, but I can not remember when my Father went up to the smokehouse to retrieve some meat.  All I remember is getting beat, and boy did I get a beating that night.  The worst whipping I had ever had.  I remember my Father being so mad; madder than ever before, but it was not the beating that was the worst part.  What was worse was that for the rest of that year I never tasted the sweet flavor of smoked meat again.  I had eaten more than my portion, a piece the size of a fist.  A portion that was supposed to last me another few months I ate in a day.  It was only when Christmas came, and we finally slaughtered our own pig that I tasted meat again, but never again did meat taste as good as it did that day. 



 “What’s wrong grandpa?” My grandson’s little voice snapped me out of my dream.  I looked into his innocent eyes and in an instant my heart sank in guilt.  In his eyes I saw my son’s eyes when he was about the same age, but what I was feeling was something that took me much further back. 

“Uhhh, nothing… nothing’s wrong.  Go on, go play with your friends.”  I managed to retort while in the process draining myself into a stupor.  I watched him run off, but instead of seeing him fade away I felt myself slip into another abyss.  In minutes my lounge became a torture chamber as hundreds of memories were clamoring to escape to the surface.  I could stand it no longer.  I got up and went for my usual walk.

Most of the grapes had been harvested, but there were still a few here and there.  I tried focusing on the stems and roots, trying to gage their health, but nothing could pull me from the abyss I had fallen into, not even my grapes, so I jumped into my Mercedes and drove.

With every passing mile I fell further and further into that haunting abyss of guilt until I was drawn back into an old world, and into a being that I had long ago forgotten and ignored.  A being I had left behind thinking he would never resurface again, yet while driving, I was plunged back into that man that I though I had long ago left behind as a phantom. 



That day had not started good.  It was summer, it was hot, and my head was twirling.  I was in my late thirties, and in a state of chaos.  I needed to escape, so when my neighbor invited me on an outing to a mountain lake I jumped at the chance.  My wife and I packed the kids and we were off in a three car caravan with our neighbor, his brother, their families, and a few extra kids; friends of our kids from the neighborhood. 

When we got to the lake we realized that everyone else had the same idea that weekend.  There were people everywhere; even the little kiosks were open selling the meager snacks available in communist Romania at the time.  The lake was small, and the beaches were mostly mud, but with nothing else for comparison, to us it was like being in San Trope.  

Most of the day was lazy.  We drank beer, laid out in the sun, and kept an eye on the kids.  My mood improved.  I was able to forget some of the frustrations of my days until a strange image caught my eye. 

Like a bat out of hell I saw my son, Liviu, running in my direction and what I saw infuriated me.  He was running like a little fool, spilling, and smudging melted ice cream everywhere.  It was on his face, on his chest, on his belly and even on his little legs.  In a jolt I was on my seat on my blanket.  With a thundering voice I snapped at my little son freezing him in his tracks.  His eyes instantly fell towards the ground under the force of my verbal blow.  He knew what was coming.

“Liviu!  Get over here now!”  I bellowed pointing at the ground in front of my feet once I was up.  I was infuriated.  How could a six year old boy be so careless, so disgusting?  My son!  I expected more from him, I educated him.  He was mocking me, disregarding my teachings, disrespecting his Father.  

“Is this how I thought you to eat?  Is it?”  I yelled at the top of my lungs.  The boy had no answer.  He stood there as sad as if he had just witnesses the end of the world.  I grabbed what was left of the ice cream out of his hand and threw it to the ground.  I looked at the sad little body and all I could feel was fury.  I grabbed his left ear and then commanded him to follow as I dragged him to the edge of the lake. 

Everyone was watching, my wife, my neighbor, my son’s little friends, even strangers who had no idea who I was.  For a moment it was pure silence, and I felt like I was in the center of the world surrounded by an audience, but the silence was soon broken by the whimpering cries and squeals of my little son. 

When we got to the edge of the water I released his little red ear and squatted down next to him.  His crying eyes were red and swollen as the tears were bubbling out of the edges and streaming down his face.  He was using his right forearm to wipe his eyes, and in the process smudging more ice cream, tears, and some snot all over his little cheeks.  His torso was jolting from the spasms of his cries.  “Clean yourself off.”   I ordered him in a calmer voice.  He seemed to hesitate for a moment. 

“Now!” I snapped harshly.  He squatted down to the water and slowly started cleaning up.  When he finished I walked him back to our little spot on the beach.  I asked him to stand by the blanket until I came back.  I walked to the edge of the forest which was just a few yards from the lake.  After finding what I was looking for I came back. 

My little son was still standing where I had ordered him.  His eyes were locked onto the ground with his little face weighed down by a heavy grin.  His crying had subsided.  Walking towards that sad little creature I was suddenly stricken by a powerful sense of sadness.  I hated seeing my son like that.  For a moment I started to reconsider my choices. 

I looked around and I saw that most people were minding their own business, but a few were looking in my direction and they did not look happy.  I knew they were judging me, and I knew I had to prove to them that I was a responsible Father; that I knew how to handle my son.  That little punk would not make a fool out of me. 

As I got closer, his little friends who were hovering around him, scattered away clustering around my neighbor who was watching me concerned.  I dropped down to one knee in front of my son.  His eyes started to redden and swell again as a new round of tears swept over them. 

“Put your palms out.”  I ordered.  His crying intensified and he started squirming in place moaning whiny elongated “No’s”.  I insisted.  He knew he had no choice.  I raised my right hand which was holding the switch.  His little hand was shaking as he slowly rose and opened it.  His cries started becoming louder and louder. 

“Let him be, he got the message.”  I heard my neighbor’s voice interrupt. 

“He needs to learn.” …and with a quick flick of my wrist I brought the switch down upon his open palm.  He squealed like a pig at the slaughter, but I was unwilling to relent.  I had to teach him; to correct him.  My neighbor bought him that ice cream, and he wasted it.  I would have no son of mine behave in that way. 

I lashed his palm five times in all.  Each time he whisked his hand away bellowing out piercing screams while trotting in place.  His little friends huddled around my neighbor watching frightened, some of them crying in solidarity with their suffering friend. 

Once his lesson was over I laid back on my blanket in the sun knowing that the momentary discomfort I put my son through would only serve to make him a better man.  He needed discipline, he needed to learn right for wrong, and he need to understand the consequences of his actions.  Yet I could not shake a strange feeling of disgust.  I felt it like greasy oil in my veins.  It was thick and nasty, and it was making me noxious… but damn it!  I knew I was right!  Then why did I feel so sick over what I had done? 

Those were the moments in life that I hated.  Even doing the right thing sometimes made me feel horrific, so I had no choice but to subdue the discomfort, the disgust; all those strange feelings.  What I had done was the right thing, I kept telling myself over and over.  I hated that I had to convince myself of what I already knew was true, but I understood why, and I did not want to think about it. 

It was my weakness.  Most of my life I dreaded being weak, and it was in moments like that when I would be viciously reminded of my weakness.  I decided that it was my weakness that was the source of my feelings of sickness and disgust.  I was weak, and I had to be strong, for my son.  For his sake I had to be a man and like a man I had to teach him, to discipline him, to make him understand.  It was the only way he was to grow to be a strong man himself, a man of accomplishment, a man of self control and not a weak coward who would hide behind the belief that he was strong… like me.

*** 3 ***

That Second Floor


It was late in the evening and the heat of the day was still lingering.  I was walking between the vines near the bottom of the hill where the furrows ended.  I turned and looked up the hill.  The furrows of grape vines extended way up the slope all the way to where the forest began.  I was amazed at the size and richness of the vines.  They were bountiful with grapes that were ripe and ready to be reaped. 

I turned away from those beautiful and seemingly endless furrows to smaller vines that were now in front of me.  These were set at an angle to what appeared to be the main crop, but these were my favorite.  I was amazed by the variety of grapes that were growing here.  Each furrow had a different type of grape.  At home we only had three types, white, red, and black, but in this place there were so many more. 

I explored them all and tried a taste from each, but my favorite were a variety of tiny red grapes.  They were no bigger than corn kernels and clustered tightly together, and as sweet as honey.  Those were my favorite, but there were so many others, and the flavors were all so different.  Some were sweet while some were tart.  Some were bitter, and a few were even a little bland.  My little eight year old mind could not fathom why were there so many different kinds?  Why?  The world I lived in was full of so many questions. 

The next thing I remember was the house.  It seemed monstrously large to me, and it was made out of wood.  The property was at the foot of a forested mountain so it was very much a cabin, but at the time, in my eight years of life, I had no idea what a cabin was.  I had never seen a house like that.  It was so different than any other house I had ever seen, not that I had seen many houses in my short life.  I had only traveled away from our property three times in my whole life, and each time to the market on the outskirts of Baia Mare, the only city near by.  On the way all the houses I saw were the same.  Mud huts with little wooden porches, one or two four-paned glass windows, and steep thatched roofs.  That is what I understood a house to be, but this house was huge.  It was tall with many large windows, some of which had six or eight panes of glass.  In fact the house was so big that it had two rows of windows, some so high that there was no man alive tall enough to see through that second row of windows.  I immediately wondered ‘what if the people who lived in that house were giants,’ and for a moment I believed it, and I felt scared. 

The last thing I wanted was for them to be giants since they were already Jews.  I was curious to see what a Jew was.  I had heard my Father talk about them many times, and he never had anything nice to say about them.  From his words I imagined them to be monsters that fed on poor peasants like us, and that made me feel even more scared. 

Next, I remember taking nervous steps up the wooden stairs onto a porch that surrounded the entire house.  I could not understand why we were entering into this house if the creatures inside it were so terrible, but I did not dare question my Father.  I tried to focus away from my fear by focusing on the intricate wooden walls of the house.  The dark wood was ornately carved.  The edges around the windows, the corners, the porch, everything on that house was carved with circles, hooks, twists and turns everywhere.  It all looked so complicated it boggled my mind.  I just could not understand why anyone would go to all the trouble to shape that wood in so many strange forms.  I felt sad for the sculptor who had to do it, and from my Father’s words I knew that it must have been a poor peasant like me.  I envisioned he started young and strong, but by the time he was done with that whole house he must have been a withered old man. 

I do not remember walking into the house but I do remember being in awe at the interior.  The first thing I noticed was the ceiling.  It was higher than ours, but not by much.  In fact it was nowhere near high enough to account for the second row of windows, and then I realized that from inside there was no second row of windows. 

I felt both relieved and disappointed.  I really hoped that giants lived in that house, but with a normal sized ceiling I was pretty sure they were just regular people no matter what my Father said.  They could not have been that bad if we were entering their strange house anyway. 

Satisfied with my conclusion I scanned the room and I was immediately overwhelmed by all the stuff in that house.  Our house had two tapestries hanging over the two beds near the corners of the room.  We had an earthen stove built into the front left corner, at the foot of one of the beds, and an old cabinet in the other corner at the foot of the other bed.  Between the stove and the cabinet was the entrance from the hall, and directly across from the entrance the room had a small window beneath which there was a wooden bench and a table. 

This house was something else entirely.  Instead of a hallway at the entrance it had an entire room.  There were coats hanging by the door, shoes on the floor, lots of pictures on the walls, and the strangest thing ever on the left side of the room.  There was no sealing there.  Instead, a huge staircase that went up, and around, until it disappeared somewhere high up into the roof… I imagined.  I could not see where the staircase finally led. 

As my parents were politely greeting the host I stared mystified at the staircase.  Then I remembered the second row of windows and came to an inconceivable conclusion.  This house had a second floor.  That explained the second row of windows, and the tall walls of the house, but why?  Why was there a second floor?  What was up there?  I had never seen a house with a second floor before, and I could not comprehend its purpose.

I suddenly felt an urge to sprint up those stairs and see what was up there, but I knew I could do no such thing.  My Father had established the rules, and I was to behave as I was told.  We were guest in the home of someone of greater importance than ourselves, thus I had to be on my best behavior, or otherwise my butt cheeks would pay the price.  My spankings were no joke, so I behaved, but I wondered; if these people were so terrible, why were they more important than us?  It did not matter.  I had more pressing concerns.  I was focused on the staircase until a tug on my arm broke my concentration. 

My Mother yanked me into another room unlike any room I had ever seen before.  Decorated ceramic plates were everywhere, hanging on every wall, each highlighted by elaborately embroidered scarves above, but what really captured my attention were the huge buck antlers jutting out from the walls.  Some were just antlers while others were entire heads of stags, and different kinds of bulls and goats.  There were so many I could not keep track of them all.  

I stared at them both scared and mesmerized.  I was not allowed to speak, those were my Father’s instructions, but I felt a need to clarify a point bubbling inside of me.  Were those animals real?  Still alive?  And if so, why were they just standing there with their heads sticking from the wall not moving at all?  I just could not understand that.  Were their bodies somehow in that upstairs room with their heads sticking out of the walls?  None of it made sense to me.  It was all so surreal, so magical. 

The owner of the house was talking to my Father.  He was a husky fat man with a long beard, and he seemed to be showing my Father his house, but I was too absorbed by the strangeness of that place to hear his words.  Then at some point the Man addressed me, and commented on my mesmerized stare at his trophies on the walls, but my attention was still in the clouds.  My Father nudged me to reply, but instead, I buried my face in my Mother’s hip.  I then heard my Father commenting about my shyness.  

We ate dinner at the house, and once again I was awed at what I saw before me.  I had never in my life seen so much food on a table, especially so much meat.  Even the bread was amazing.  I always thought that bread was bread, like the bread my Mother made; round, hard, and brown, but on this table there were all kinds of breads.  Some loafs were long while others were curled like braided hair, but my favorite were the small ones.  Little breads the size of my hand. 

That was about as much as I could remember about that visit.  The visit itself was not important, but rather the aftermath.  Something about that house affected me on a level I could not touch.  After that day I dreamed about it every night and wondered about it every day.  It entered my psyche with such force that it became all my thoughts.  It did not take long before my impression of that house merged so integrally with my thoughts that I could no longer tell if that house was in fact real, or maybe that day I fell into one of my fairytales. 

Thoughts about fairytales brought Ovi back into my mind.  I missed him and I could not understand why he was gone.  Why had he not returned yet?  One day I asked my parents when he was coming back, but they said he was gone and would be gone for a long time.  The next day I asked again, and the day after that again until I finally got a spanking, and was ordered to never ask about Ovi ever again.

After my spanking I cried, and I thought about that house.  I imagined it was like the house in my favorite story; a story I had made Ovi repeat a hundred times.  It was my favorite ferry tale about two sisters, one good, humble, and hardworking while her step sister was conceited, and lazy. 

The story went that the family was on hard times, so the good sister decided to visit a witch to ask for some assistance.  On her journey she encountered various magical beings that were in trouble, and although she was in a hurry, she never hesitated to stop and help them, even those who seemed dangerous or disgusting.  When she got to the Witch’s house the witch told her to climb into the attic, and there amongst the many chests she could choose which ever one she wanted, but only open it at home where it would give her what she most wished.   

Being humble she chose the smallest flimsiest chest, but when she got home and opened it, all the riches of the world came pouring out.  Upon seeing this, the step sister decided to give the old Witch a visit, and get her own chest.  On her journey she encountered the same magical beings in the same distress, but unlike her good sister she refused to help any of them.  When she got to the Witch’s attic she chose the largest, most beautiful chest she could find, and when she got home and opened it, a monster came out and ate her. 

That was my favorite of the fairytales that Ovi used to tell me.  There were others, and they were my entertainment, my movies, my television, and my videogames.  As a kid I cherished them all, but the story of the two sisters was always my favorite.  On my many a lonely days, while watching over the cattle at pasture, I would sit in the shade of a tree, and get carried away in some witch’s attic where I knew that magic existed.  In my young mind I was certain that fairy tale was true in some far corner of the world.   I was certain that somewhere on this earth there was a house, and that house had an attic, and in that attic I could find my very own magic chest.  

So after my visit to that cabin I was certain that I had found it.  I became obsessed with the staircase.  I was certain that it led to a magical realm upstairs.  I begged my parents to take me to that house again, but after a while my Father got tired of my whining, and when in spite of his warnings I kept on whining, I got another spanking, one that finally convinced me that whining was not worth it. 

I never asked about that house again, but neither did it leave my mind.  It haunted me every day.  I no longer had any interest in playing with sticks and stones.  I no longer cared about the crickets and the butterflies.  All I could think about; all I cared about, was all the magic that I knew existed in the world, and was waiting for me up in that second floor.

*** 4 ***

Still Sad but Distracted


It was a dreary, wet and cold spring day, and hard as I tried I could not find the usual joy in that trip.  The magic was gone.  I had been on that route before and nothing seemed to have changed except the way I felt about it.  I used to love our trips to the market.  The adventure of going some place different, seeing new things, and having Ovi there to explain those new things to me.  It is how it used to be, but Ovi was gone.  The adventure was gone, and I was hollowed out by an empty sadness that no matter how much I tried to ignore, it just would not let me be.  By the time we got to the market the emptiness was drawing tears from my eyes.  I wanted more than anything to forget what I craved, but I did not know how, yet as it tends to be in life, as we got busy with the market, I do not remember when exactly; but somewhere along the way I did forget, and went about the business of selling apples, cabbage, and the potatoes we had kept fresh over the winter. 

It rained the entire day.  We did our best to hide from it, but by the end we were all soaked and covered in mud.  As we packed up, the rain finally came to an end.  The sky was still a heavy gloomy grey as we got on our way.  The poor dirt road was a now a mud bath, but it did not matter.  Our two cows were used to trotting in the muddy slosh, and had no trouble pulling the now mostly empty cart back to our little corner of the world. 

With only an hour before sunset some of the suns rays were occasionally breaking through the grey gloom for the first time that day.  I was walking in a daze lagging far behind the cart, lost in my own world, daydreaming, when a little sparkle snatched me.  I stopped in my tracks and stared. 

“Hmm, that is odd.” I mumbled to myself.  There was a glimmer, a little sparkle in the mud ahead.  It sparkled and shone like the waters surface on a sunny day, but only on a single point.

The strange but beautiful glow in the mud held me back in a spell for a moment until I moved forward, and in an instant the sparkle was gone.  It vanished.  I froze and gently moved form side to side until I caught the glimmer again.  I focused my eyes and concentrated on the spot until I was certain I had it memorized.  I then ran to the spot. 

A few steps away the glimmer flashed in my eyes once more, but only briefly.  Three steps later I was standing above the spot.  I stared hard at the mud in front of my feet looking for anything that might be shiny there, but I could see nothing special.  I squatted down and started searching with my eyes, but there was nothing in my view that shone. 

“Strange.”  I thought to myself.  I searched meticulously with my eyes, but there was noting but mud.  Then I noticed a little black spot in the otherwise grey-brown mud.  I focused on it, but I was certain it could not have been what I saw.  I decided to search around it, and shoved my hand into the goo.  I raked my fingers through the mud.  It was deep and full of grit.  I searched all around the little black spot but all I could find was mud, grit, and rock. 

I stood up and looked at the cart shrinking in the distance.  I looked back at the mud in front of my feet.  I felt sad.  I wanted to know where the glimmer had come from, but all I could see was mud.  I moved my eyes to the little black spot again.  It got on my nerves.  Why was it there and not my little glittering thing?  I quickly squatted down and shoved my fingers in the mud around it and yanked it out.  I looked at it, and I immediately noticed its smooth round shape under the heavy mud.  I rolled the muddy rock between my finger tips to get a better feel.  It was completely round; a perfectly round little rock. 

I looked ahead.  The cart was even further now, maybe two to three hundred feet away.  I got up with the little round rock in hand and casually gave chase to catch up with my caravan.  In no time I was at a comfortable distance about forty to fifty feet behind it.  In my hand I was rolling the little round rock enjoying the slippery sensation from the creamy mud caked on it, but I had grabbed that rock for a reason, and it was time.

I looked at the open field to my right, and then to the forest on my left.  Which way would I throw that little rock?  I liked its perfect roundness, but that rock was my nemesis.  It had cheated me.  Instead of finding the bright glimmer that had caught my eye, all I found was a little muddy rock.  I wanted to hurt it, to punish it for cheating me.  To toss it with all my force further than I had tossed anything before. 

I did not care for that field so I looked at the forest on my left.  I wanted to throw that little rock as far and deep into that forest as I could.  I started searching for the perfect spot.  The trees were scant, and I had no idea what I was looking for until I would find it, so I patiently searched. 

I looked ahead.  The cart creaked along, its wheels churning muddied water as it slowly revealed a huge puddle from underneath.  I stopped for a movement and waited.  The puddle was massive, a miniature lake as wide as the road.  That was it, my target, but it was far, further than I had ever thrown anything before.  I liked it.  It was a challenge, and I had the perfect little rock to throw to conquer the record distance.   

I rolled the little rock between my fingers.  It was about two centimeters in diameter, perfect for my little hand.  Its weight was just right, dense and hard, but not too heavy. 

I eyed the puddle one more time and then raised my right hand far behind my body.  I tightened the left-front half of my body with all my strength, and then with a powerful spasm I flung my right arm through the air casting the little rock into the distance.  I followed its dark silhouette against the grayish sky, but then lost it as it fell below the tree line.  My eyes quickly moved to the puddle just as a little splash conferment my success. 

“Bull’s-eye!”  I jumped with joy.  I had done it.  It was the furthest I had ever thrown a rock before.  I took off running towards the puddle.  I could see my Father on the cart looking over his shoulder checking up on me.  Satisfied he looked forward just as I reached the mini-lake. 

When I reached its shore I was not quite sure where the pebble had gone in, but I knew it was in the right half.  I pulled up my sleeve, and plunged my hand in the muddy water.  I started searching, touching rock after rock, but from feel I knew none were my little round stone. 

I searched and moved further into the puddle to no avail.  I looked up and the cart was shrinking in the distance.  My search became more frantic.  I had to find my little champion rock.  I moved deeper into the puddle.  I scavenged the bottom with both hands like a raccoon, but nothing.  

I looked up again and the cart had shrunk even more.  I was getting nervous.  The cart was so far away, why was I searching for this rock?  I stood up and stared at the cart.  It was approaching a bend, and half the day light had already gone.  I knew I had no more time to waste.  My legs tensed as I was about to push off and chase after the cart, but then suddenly they relaxed, and I looked back at the puddle.  Something about that rock would not let me go.  ‘It was just a rock’ the thought flashed through my mind, but… I could not walk away.  I had to find it.  I had to keep searching. 

I squatted back down and plugged my hands into the puddle.  I patted the bottom and ‘wham’ I hit something smooth and round.  I quickly snatched it out splashing myself with the muddy goo.  I looked at the rock and it glistened in my hand.  For an instant I forgot about the cart.  I stared at it in awe.  It was the glitter, the glimmer I had seen. 

“Was this what I had seen?”  I wondered out loud.  It had to be.  I was certain, but now it looked completely different.  It was glassy, shiny, and smooth.  I plunged it back into the puddle and cleaned off the remaining bits of mud until I was left with a perfectly round and shiny little black rock.  I could not believe what I had in my hand.  It was beautiful.  The most beautiful thing I had ever seen. 

“Cepi!” I heard my Father’s distant voice.  I squeezed my fist around the little rock tight, and sprang into a run.  The cart was stopped waiting for me when I arrived.  I slowed down as I got close until my Father ordered me to jump in the cart.  I quickly hustled into the back and we started moving again.  Mircea was walking up ahead guiding the poor cows that were pulling us along.  We were entering a thick forest which only hastened the dimming of the day as it faded into night. 

I settled in a comfortable spot in the nearly empty cart and I opened my hand, but first I glanced at my parents over my shoulder.  They were sitting on a plank at the front of the cart manning the reins.  I knew they would not look back for a while.  I turned back to my hand and slowly exposed my little jewel.  Through the thick clouds, and thick forest, it was already too dark to see anything beyond various shades of grey, yet the little jewel in my hand sparkled even without the sun.  In that instant I knew it was something special.  It had its own shine even though it was pitch black. 

I had never before seen anything black shine before.  It was strange yet exhilarating.  I rolled it between my thumb and fingers.  It was smooth and soft even though it was hard.  I had never in my life felt a surface both soft and hard before in my life.  How strange.  What a special little rock. 

It was too dark to see much anymore, but I could not stop fondling my little find.  I loved its hard smoothness and how easily it rolled in my hand.  As the darkness got thinker I kept rolling it, enjoying its sensation on the skin of my hand.

“Get up we’re home!”  Mother’s voice cut through the darkness.  I tried opening my eyes, but it did not seem to do a whole lot.  I heard moving and shuffling around me, and then there was an interruption…  A second later I woke up again as Mircea lifted me out of the wagon.  I immediately squeezed my right hand.  I felt the smooth hardness of my little jewel.  I was satisfied.  I remember bouncing in Mircea’s arms as he walked over the threshold, but that is all I remeber. 

The next morning I woke up in my little nest.  Years earlier I had made a nest for myself out of straw wrapped in a large blanket, near the earthen stove, in a little nook between the fire wood and my parent’s bed.  Over time it became my private little space, you could say my bedroom.  Since we all shared one room it was the only place I had that was my own. 

Upon awakening I noticed that I was alone.  I sat up and immediately remembered my little stone.  I looked in my hand, but it was empty.  I started searching in my nest.  I searched every nook, cranny, and fold, but no rock.  I checked and double checked.  I started tugging at the blanked, but nothing. 

My search became more frantic.  I looked around my nest and at the base of the logs, just in case it had slid between them.  One by one I checked every crevice that was large enough for the rock to roll in to, and then I heard my Mother’s voice. 

“Are you still not out of bed yet?”  Her voice amplified my anxiety.  I had no idea why, but I felt panicked at the thought that I had lost my precious shiny stone.  It had to be there!  Where could it have gone?  I started tugging at my nest trying to pull it out.  It was heavier than I remembered.  I tugged on it as hard as I could until I heard my Mother’s voice again from outside.  She was ordering me to get to the henhouse and collect the eggs already. 

I knew I had to obey, but walking away and forgetting my rock tore me to pieces.  Ignoring my Mother I dropped on my knees and started searching under the bed.  It was high of the ground, with about two feet of space underneath.  The space was taken up by several wooden chests.  I tried pushing the chests but they were too heavy.  I got up and started yanking one it with all my force, and slowly is started to budge.  After a good effort I had made enough space for my little body to slide in.  I slid under the bed between them like a little snake, but all I found were some dead bugs and spiders with no pebble anywhere in sight.  I looked in every crevice in our clay floor, around all the chests as far as I could reach, when once again I heard my Mother’s voice.  This time it was a lot closer. 

“What are you doing?”  I heard her words directly behind me.  I quickly slithered out from under the bed.  I did not know what to say, so I stood there and stared at her. 

“Come on, you’ll have time to mess around later.  I need you to go got the eggs, and then I need you too…”  Her voice faded from my ears as my mind focused on my special rock.  I felt sad, like I had lost something important, and then for a moment I wondered why I cared so much for that little rock?  I let that thought slide because I knew that there was something special about it.  I knew it was not a rock, it was something amazing, something mysterious, and it was the mystery of that stone that mesmerized me to no end. 

My usual chores, which I had never given any thought to before, seemed so much longer that day.  It took forever before I was done.  When I finally walked into the house I stopped in the middle of the room and stared at my nest.  My Mother was by the stove preparing our dinner.  She started saying something to me, but I was lost in the world of my shiny rock.  My eyes were locked onto the bed.  I knew it had to be somewhere under that bed.  Maybe it even rolled under one of the wooden chests.  I did not look under the chests.  That was it!  Our floor was made of packed clay so it was not that even.  The floor undulated a bit and in some places I could slide my hand under the chests which themselves were not perfectly flat on the bottom either.  I rushed to the bed, dropped on my knees, and started yanking on the same chest as in the morning with all my strength. 

“Stop messing with that chest.”  I heard my Mother’s voice, but her words had no meaning.  I was certain I had resolved my problem, and I was not going to give up now.  I keep yanking on it, and slowly the chest started coming out. 

“Cepi!  Didn’t you hear me?  What is with you and that chest today?”   Again, I completely ignored her, and kept pulling.  I forced a couple of more yanks when I felt a strong hand under my left arm lifting me to my feet.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop?”  My Mother snapped at me pointing her wooden spoon in my face.  “Do I need to smack you over the ears before you listen?”

“But I need to find it.”  I whined in response.  

“Find what?”

“The, the rock.”  She momentarily gave me a long look.

“Push that chest back, and if you can’t make yourself useful in here, then go find something to do outside.”

I started whining about my rock.  I told her I had found a special stone, but she cut me off and dismissed it.  She let my arm go and walked back to the stove.  She told me to forget about it; that I would find another rock, but I knew she was wrong.  There was no other.  That rock was special.  I had seen many rocks, but that rock was one of a kind. 

My eyes were welling up with tears.  I looked at the back of my mom.  Her body was wobbling gently as she mixed the pot of polenta on the stove.  She looked so large and imposing, and in that moment I hated her.  Why was she denying me something she did not even understand?  I was furious.  I dropped back on my knees and I quietly crawled between the chests.  I had managed to pull one out about a foot.  I searched behind it but could not find any space where my rock could have rolled…

“Ahhhooouuu!”  I yelped in pain when I felt a hard piercing sting on my left butt cheek.  It was so sudden and painful it made my spine arch and my eyes instantly flow with tears.  I quickly scuffled backwards from under the bed with my Mother’s voice looming above me.  She was scolding me for not listening.  Pointing to it with the wooden spoon that had just bit my ass, she ordered me to push the chest back.  Heaving from the sobs, I struggled against the chest back.  I was pushing, but with no energy or commitment.  In my heart, instead of pushing I wanted to pull, but I did not dare disobey again.  The more I pushed the angrier I got, and then finally I was mad.  I pushed with all my anger, and just like that the chest was back in its place in one swift move.  I jumped to my feet and stormed out of the house.  I ran and ran until I reached my friend the little creek, but I was in no mood for it.  I crossed the little foot to the grassy field. 

The day had been sunny and warm, unlike the day before.  The grass was still young and a deep green in color, accented with yellows, reds, and blues from all the little flowers.  I walked carefully as I headed off the path towards my cherry tree.  I did not want to trample the fresh grass and get in trouble again, this time with my Father.  I finally reached my only friend and started climbing it with fervor. 

I sat in my comfortable perch whipping away my tears until I lost myself in a daydream.  In this daydream I imagined that I was back at that house with a second floor.  I was there all alone, just me and the stairwell.  My daydream was so vivid I could see every detail.  I could even smell the way that house smelled.  It was a strange but pleasant smell far different than the barnyard smell of our little shack. 

I could even hear the squeaks and cracks of the wooden steps, as I slowly made my way up to the top.  I envisioned the second floor as one large room, and just like in the downstairs, there were many animal heads on the walls.  On the floor the room was filled with chests of all shapes and sizes.  This is how I had always seen it, ever since my visit.  Many times, while sitting in the comfortable clasp of my friend the cherry tree, I visited that second floor in the dreams of my lonely days.  From there, I would open a chest, and in each I would find a new adventure into a new fairytale, but today was different.  I looked at all the chests but none appealed to me.  They were boring.  They no longer held the same magic. 

So I turned my head, and on the other side of the room I saw a bed.  And when I looked down, near one of its legs, I saw it.  It was right there waiting for me to clasp it.  It was my magic little stone.  I calmly walked to my prize and took my time observing it before I finally grabbed it in my hand.  It was mine.  It belonged to me. 

The setting sun finally forced me back into reality, and signaled the need for me to head for home.  I got as far as twenty feet from the house and I stopped.  I really did not want to walk into that house that evening.  I was still angry at my Mother, and I knew that neither my Father nor Mircea would jump to my defense.  I walked to the barn and sat on the raised threshold of the door.  I sat and stared into space as sad as I could be.  I was angry at my Mother for hitting me.  I was angry at her for not understanding me, and I was angry that I lost the most amazing thing I had ever seen in my life. 

 I was still feeling sorry for myself when a brush of soft fur momentarily pulled me out of my moroseness.  It was Paulina rubbing herself against my left shin the way cats do.  I looked at her and quietly asked ‘Why?’  She looked up at me and answered with a “meow”.  Her oblong black and yellow eyes were like pools of mystery.  I wondered what she was thinking. 

She broke the stare and twirled around my legs, petting herself against my calves and shins.  I stretched out my hand and rubbed her head and neck.  Her fur was soothingly soft.  She once again turned to look at me and with another soft “meow”, this time it seemed she posed a question.  My moroseness faded as my curiosity grew.  Was Paulina really talking to me?

“What are you saying… little cat?”  I asked rubbing her under the chin.  She answered me with a look that I could swear was a smile.  I could not help but smile back at her through all my sadness, and just like that she made me forget my anger.  It was replaced with a melancholy that weighed on my heart for her.  In that moment I was certain that if she could, she would have spoken.  She was just a little cat, yet it was as clear as day to me that Paulina had a thought in her mind and wanted to speak it, but she could not.  How unfair this world, I thought.  I felt a deep sadness for Paulina for being punished, denied her speech, simply for being a cat.  In that way I knew we were the same.  Without words she was as alone in this world as I was.

After a minute or so she stepped away, turned her head, and with a soft “meow” she seemed to once again reveal a new tidbit of wisdom to me.  This time my reaction was more tepid, and far more skeptic.  ‘Nah, she couldn’t really be talking to me.’ 

I lifted her from under her little arms until her lanky body hung like a rag doll.  I looked at her face and studied her eyes.  Those oblong oval eyes, yellow around the edges with big black pupils in the center.  They were glazed and shining back at me like my little black rock.  I stared and lost myself in the shine, until I remembered my sadness.  She hung patiently, with her arms stretched out forward.  She seemed to be studying me as deeply as I was her.  I brought her close, and I hugged her.  The fur was so soft, and so soothing, but only for a moment.  She immediately struggled, so I let her go. 

She did not run.  She sat down the way cats do, looked over her shoulder at me, and meowed.  It sounded like another question.  She then came closer, and once again leaned into my leg and rubbed up against me, purring.  She coiled her body like a snake and closed her eyes.  She pushed her weight onto my leg with so much thrust that had I moved it, she would have fallen.  She pushed hard into me as she rubbed against my leg, and she meowed again.  This time I could tell it was not a question… maybe it was the answer.  I was still sad… but distracted.