Teardrops in the coffee shop
My brother and I, two young kids, sitting in the back of the car, trying to spot a rabbit or falcon or colorful pheasant in the landscape of Pannonia. My mom and dad recounting stories from when they were dating and made the same trip, but on older roads.
Driving to my grandparents was always exciting. The lush, mild air in itself was something to witness. The vast, open land. The smell of the stone floor, iron stove and wooden furniture in my grandparents’ house. My grandfather’s mysterious workshop in the back of the mill. My grandmother’s cooking, and openness to conversation. In between periods of privacy and rest, there were often visitors—relatives, friends, musicians, fellow members of various clubs, there was always something going on.
Lunch at 12 noon sharp, dinner no later than 5pm, early to bed, sound sleep in the deeply quiet house, with everyone I loved and important to me inside. Doves cooing in the morning through the slightly open window, and a distant rooster calling. My fingers running over the peculiar rug tacked to the wall beside my bed. Savouring every moment, trying to stop time. Trying to stop time. Though time kept moving on.