The old table was set in front of the window. From where I was standing, I could see the playground, basking in the morning sun. The playground where I bruised my knees so many times and where I cried over my broken heart as the boy I liked, gave gum to another girl. At that time, the playground was my safe haven.
It was still early as almost everybody I knew was enjoying their morning slumber.
Fina, from apartment 9, was out there smoking her usual cheap cigars, wrapped in stolen labels, while she was graciously drinking her miracle cancer concoction, as she called it. A mix of herbs from the black market. Little did she know that, at that point, it did not matter if she were to drink just plain water or miracle herbs, cancer already burned her bones.
And as many people of her age, communism brought her to its knees before time. She was a thin, young woman that lost her way somewhere between her two heart attacks and the impediment of living her life as she wanted.
On that particular morning, she seemed happy.
That day, we had no food in the fridge and I had no time to dwell on this as I was used to minimal access to food. These were harsh times when even I, as a child, acknowledged that we were passing through a bad period.
All my grandparents had to offer to me that morning was a piece of stale bread with some sort of gooey orange paste that they told me it was called marmalade.
I was 6 years old when I ate for the first time marmalade.
Little did I know that marmalade was stolen by my grandfather, as I found out later in life, just because he thought I deserved to eat something sweet and different, rather than the usual bread with sugar on it. He used to help me dip the bread in warm tea, so it would be easier for me to eat it as I was imagining it was a slice of cake.
Little did my grandparents knew that stolen jar of marmalade would mean so much to me now, at 28 years old, as all the pieces in my head connected this morning.
On a chilly October day, the adult Ema realized that sometimes the past leaves indelible marks on your soul and everything makes sense now, including the jars of jams and marmalade that I obsessively buy and have now in my fridge, how my dad can't sleep if he doesn't have 3 loaves of bread in the house and how my husband has 30+ pairs of only white socks.
Beautifully written. I like stories that ring straight out of the heart into mine. Your imagery is to the point and reminds me of very similar stories in my life...
Have you ever tried lavender marmalade? It is to die for, or at to hover in Seventh Heaven for a while with.
Thanks for the good read again and you got my fellowship from now on too.
Namaste :)
Thank you @eric-boucher!
I did try it years ago, unfortunately, I can't find it anymore. It was divine!!! I guess at this point I should probably try and make some myself.
Namaste! ❤
Ah, I remember those days 25 years ago. For long periods, we had nothing to eat but toasted slices of bread with a layer of lard and a bit of salt.
Beautifully written, @szuri!
Thank you @irreverent-dan!
There are days when I really wonder how the hell did we survive back them.
Yeah, we somehow pulled it through... Now thinking about it, 1996 was even worse in Bulgaria as we had hyperinflation. My mom's monthly salary at that time was worth $10 :)
Very well written story @szuri. Thanks for sharing.
Thank you @adrianv!
Very poetic!
Thank you! :)
Wonderful writing:-)
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Thank you @kerlund74. I will check it out :)
I find myself in your story! @szuri
The white socks? :-)
you got me there
And I also can't stand marmalade, but for different reasons. When I was little I mostly had for breakfast tea or milk with bread and marmalade. (+ margarine, because butter was too expensive). So I got tired of it. Last countdown of the fridge, we had 19 different jars of marmalade. Some of it from that-time-we-went-to-Polland. It's a cool situation :)) Cause I have half of our fridge filled with marmalade. We've got 99 problems, but marmalade ain't one. @bubke
oohh @szuri you really know how to pluck at my heart strings...
I'm sorry that I was preoccupied when you posted this, it is beautiful and it brings to my mind the traits that I have that were embedded in my soul as a child. My parents were teenagers during WW II and my Dad either lied about his age or had to get a waiver in order to get into the U.S. Navy. They both remembered the shortages and hardships from that time, as well as being young children during the effects of the Great Depression, and those experiences had shaped their lives. Some of that was passed down to me, so a lot of my decisions and traits are based on what I learned from my parents because of their experiences, and part of it comes from my own life experiences. I loved this @szuri! 😊
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