EN. Run like the wind to the top of the hill so you can see your childhood village again. It's so cold that your skin cracks. The memory is so fresh. You can even hear the children cheering on the hill overlooking the church when they fly downhill on their wooden sleds down the slope that slips towards uncle Vasile's backyard, where the old wooden fence has long been taken away so the little ones don't have to bring their flight to a sudden stop. You can even hear the barking of dogs as they guard master and courtyard. You seem to remember the semantron's call as it gets dark and the carols fill the alleys. If you close your eyes, you can feel a whiff of the baked apples that nana put on the stove, of the snow frozen on the wool that mother used to make grey trousers out of, the sweet smell of the cozonac and of eternity. Then it suddenly goes quiet, and warm, and it smells of fir trees. For the holidays we always go back home. At least, in our thoghts.
Cărți poștale cu povești - ediție de colecție
proiect dezvoltat în parteneriat de Muzeul de Pânze şi Poveşti Mândra & TRANSYLVANA GIFT