From my childhood. Father

   Uncle Lazar and auntie Helen lived in a near-by village. Their family was large. There were nine of them. Once my parents paid a visit to them. I was a little girl of about five. I was happy there: many children to play with, snow white hens in the yard, charming sheep in the field. What a wonderfully gay time we had! I persuaded my parents to let me stay there for some days. Well, I was left.  Night time came. Everybody went to bed. So did I. After some whispering and giggling children fell asleep. Except me-I began to cry. I was crying ‘cause my Mum wasn’t with me, ‘cause the bed wasn’t mine, ‘cause a pillow and a cover smelled in a different way. I missed my parents. I wanted to see them. Till now I wonder how Dad felt my woe and returned to take me back home. There were no telephones that time. There were no cars and trains between villages. I think it was Mum who felt my sorrow and sent father to bring me back.
   I was sitting in a cart pressing myself to Dad. So sweet was his scent. So lulling was the squeak of the wheels. In a second, I was sleeping. More than forty years passed. Forty years ago my father died.  Sometimes at night I suddenly wake up, lie a bit silently, then press myself to my husband’s shoulder. I smell his odour as if that of my father’s, come back to my childhood and slide down into slumber…