Returning Home Poem by Cristina M. Moldoveanu

The sun in my grandma's eyes was enough for me,
although the windows of our house were built towards Northwest.
Each morning she cut with a knife the top of my boiled egg,
we spun together round that golden core
with a silver teaspoon, a gift for my father's baptism.

There weren't enough butterflies
for the many flowers grandma brought in from our garden.
Other flowers were sewn on my handkerchiefs,
as well as on my hats.
Grandma made them with her hands, soft like ripe apricots,
smelling like naphthalene and purple lilac.
I still remember how we used to cut the blossoming lilac
after rain, when everything was fresh and beautiful,
in the same colors as fairy tale books drawings.

Years passing by, more and more pigeons flew away,
leaving our home's attic
where they were prisoners
The fight for love was stronger every year,
like a quarrel between seasons.

As I grew higher than grandma's shoulders,
higher than the mailbox at the front gate,
taller than the fir sapling in the street,
little by little I left for another place,
trying to catch the sunset in my small basket
where grandma had left a few dry cakes
sprinkled with sugar…