ready in time for a strange celebration at which nobody celebrated anything, but because of me, she and Grandma decided we couldnât just skip New Yearâs. They went around the house all in black, the mood not festive in the least. I donât understand this! I never understood how they didnât know how to celebrate and grieve at the same time: celebrate the special occasion and grieve because of Nanoâs death. With them it was always one or the other, as if they were scared someone was secretly watching them, testing the depth of their grief and the height of their celebration. When Nano died they wouldnât have paid any mind if I laughed at little slant-eyed mothers, but they werenât on the news anymore. The war in Vietnam was over, and other wars didnât make the news in the lead-up to New Yearâs. What a shame! If Iâd laughed Mom wouldnât have started with the nurturing stuff. That was a sure bet.
Dad came over on New Yearâs Eve, bringing something with a thousand pieces. He sat down in the middle of the room and began puttingit together. I sat down next to him, my hands on my knees, waiting to see what it would be. I wanted his building to go on and on, that we would stay here forever, in this room, on this rug, that the whole world would wait until we were finished, that nothing would happen before Dad had built whatever he was building, that time would stand still too, that everyone would look at their watches believing everything comes to an end, that eventually theyâd see what heâd built, that it would be and stay like this forever and that nothing would ever happen anymore.
My dummy dear
Dad brought the kitten home. Itâd been meowing in a doorway up on KoÅ¡evo in the late-November rain, a little black kitten the size of a childâs hand, one eye open, the other closed. Kittens are born with their eyes closed; sight only comes when theyâve sniffed and licked the world around them, once they know what theyâre going to see. Dad had it in his pocket, I had to , he said, itâs okay , said Mom. Grandma fetched a saucer of milk and an eyedropper. Placing the kitten in her lap, she turned it on its back and fed it, drop by drop, while Mom and Dad discussed its chances of survival. Grandma didnât say anything, not then, and not in the days to follow. Iâd head off to school and sheâd be there with the dropper in her right hand and the kittenâs head in her left, and when I came back sheâd be doing the same. And so it wentfor days. It was three weeks before the kitten began to drink milk on its own, to explore the house and to purr. When her other eye opened we knew she would live.
In those years the seasons marked the comings and goings in our house just like in childrenâs books. Spring: Mom takes the rug out into the yard, throws it over a clothesline wire, beating it with a wicker paddle. The blows of my tennis-playing mom resound and the dust flies everywhere, every blow a thunderclap. Other moms are out beating their rugs too and the whole city reverberates, the air dusty like the heart of an old watch, every ray of sun visible. The sun circles the earth to the rhythm of a thousand blows, the city a heavenly disco. In the broad light of day all the angels and all the saints gaze down to see whatâs up as moms beat their rugs in the early spring. Or the summer: Footprint traces in the fresh asphalt, I become famous with every step, each imprinted forever. Sweaty I enter the cool of our house, so good in the summertime, its coolness a contrast to the heat of the whole steaming world outside. Iâll be off to the seaside soon and already miss the house. Iâm going away, that Iâll be coming back is no relief because thereâs no coming back worth such a leaving. Autumn: The house is fragrant, the rain falling outside our steamy windows. Paprikas, tomatoes, cabbages, and floury apples jostle