Sunset stories

Sometimes, time seems long enough to fit every holiday from our childhood. 

What if time could freeze? Would you go back and put together the broken pieces of the past? We didn't know it then, but we would reach a moment when we would cling desperately to those memories, in hopes that one day when we would come back, the house would smell of fresh bread and our grandfather would wait by the chimney with one last tale.

Merciful enough that, just for a moment, it would freeze, and everything would be still — all the long summer days, all the frigid winter nights, and all the reminiscences laid throughout the years like bait for a blind thief called time. 

I loved the days spent with my grandparents, all the nights roaming around the countryside, the smell of summer rain on the ashy path, the flavourful fruits in the garden, the smell of fresh bread in the oven, the swirling air hitting against the golden wheat and my grandfather's stories. An aching longing overwhelms me when I think of the winters with snowdrifts, the plain delight of children with frozen cheeks and maroon noses, the smell of wood burning, and the childish fuss. It's an enchanting familiarity that lingers in time, a place you can always return to when you close your eyes. I ache to hold onto my grandfather's stories, tales about winters so unyielding and folks committed to their land, bound to keep the unwavering value. My grandfather used to tell his childish stories about past times when winter came about as a proud woman. Courtly and sublime, she haunted even the most humble of blossoms. He spoke with a gloomy smile and a forehead engraved with a lifetime of memories, like a claim that time doesn't let us forget. 

Night descended with the frost, its icy breath quenching the chimney's flame, It strode carefully through the lonely lane, leaving tiny embers at windows. The cold reigned over the field, silencing even the tender snowdrops and leaving behind a milky cloak days in a row.

If you looked close enough at times, you could see small creatures emerging toward the soft white light, startled by the utter silence and serenity.

 Everything was ivory around, the frail porcelain shivering with every squeak and giggle once the school doors opened. Every laugh and shriek brought color to my old countryside like a wave of joy hitting against a rock of dullness. At night, the air lulled again, any sign of life muted by the passing of time. There was a familiar light coming from the cramped houses. Amid nightfall, those

lucky enough to witness could hear a raised voice or a child laughing, the wood creaking in the chimney, and the air smelling of bread and smoke.

Around the holidays, the small town at the skirts of the mountains grew into something out of a tale -- sleigh bells, carols, cheerful children, and closeness.

My lowly town would soon be rich, but not with gold or pennies, with the undeniable realization that I belonged somewhere and belonged to someone. My soul would forever wander the trodden path of my humble village, along the children singing carols and along the houses covered in snow, and it would know this is where I am supposed to be.

My grandfather would tell me about the Christmas rituals when groups of children would skip from house to house, pushing and crowding each other, singing with different tones, cheeks freezing, and pockets full of sweets and warm pretzels. Sometimes, a disgruntled neighbor would chase them down, or a frightened dog would bark and jolt. I would listen and smile—the familiarity almost engraved in me.

When the sun set and the middle of the night would sneakily appear, all the laughter quieted, and utter silence took its place. There were nights when all the children would gather around the fire, and the elders would tell stories about souls that still roamed the land restless. My grandfather would tell me afterward how the audience would hold their breath and listen while everything around them came to life. In the following days, the children would round up and play all sorts of games, imaging fierce beasts and mighty knights on white horses. Once in a while, during the enthusiastic play, a warrior would be tragically struck along with his stallion. The relentless fight would be interrupted by their defeat, and with a tired expression, they went home.

On the bench in front of the gate, beneath the old nut tree -- a guardian of secrets and lost tales -- I often sat beside my grandfather during the long summer nights, when the air reeked of fresh fruit when we overlooked the sunset falling on the golden wheat. My grandfather would tell me about a moment when summer wasn't gone and fall wasn't close either, when the air was still hot and everything was quiet when the birds would make their way towards the horizon but still struggle to fly, when the golden leaves didn't fall yet and when we could cherish being young a little bit more. He would go on about his youth, about the Sundays' at the cramped church in our little town, about the unforgettable moment when, after a long wait in numerous layers of festive attire listening to the preach and being troublesome when laughing beneath the

benches, he and his friends would squeeze through the crowd to get the blessing and then rush out of the big wooden doors towards the brisk lake in town.

They played, frolicked, and shrieked, and everything around them was soaked in utter innocence. Everything around them was changing—their childhood was becoming boundless, their friendships seemed to last a lifetime, our humble town was everlasting, and what were once hopes were now becoming reality.

At dusk, when the sun would fall below the horizon, lighting up everything behind it and painting the sky within its glory, basking its red beams in the glossy water, everyone headed home on the same trodden path I'd always known. For them, being famished from not eating for hours on end or being exhausted from all of the hours in the sun was just a temporary feeling that would soon be replaced by the innocent joy of being outside together.

Mornings became colder, the houses no longer smelled of cherries and fresh air, and suddenly, time passed again, deceptive and quick. The small houses were now filled with the smell of apples and quince placed on the shelf atop the furnace, and my grandfather understood silently that the harvest was starting and everyone would resume their work. All Autumn silhouettes would come and go, swaying on the familiar trail with tools in one hand and hope in the other. A season ended, and another one came, a year ended, and another one awaited, this was the course of life that came with childhood and friends, and my grandfather knew that, closed his wrinkly eyes, and sighed. I refrained from asking anything, too afraid that I would disturb old memories hidden somewhere in his mind. He cleared his throat with a loud cough, and while gently holding my hand in his he said clearly: " Oh my dear child, what a time! You're all grown up, but never forget that a man's memories are his worth, where he comes from, and where he's headed. Your roots are your family, and your home is a place you can always come back to. And when you do, the people who have stood firm throughout the years will remind you that the stories you have are yours, and no one else can say that. Hold onto them and remember that from time to time it's good to go back to being children!

I have returned years in a row to my humble town at the skirts of the mountains and every time it was as if I was seeing it for the first time again. But now, amongst the houses untainted by time, on the forgotten path, you could hear a faint echo of the childhood that once was, on the little old bench in front of the copper gate when I was still listening to my grandfather's stories, my cherished heirloom.