Posts tagged " childhood "

On Russia

December 27th, 2016 Posted by Tabula Rasa No Comment yet

I left home a long time ago. So long that I don’t even call it home. I never miss it, nowhere I go in the world ever reminds me of it. Just once, long ago, on a bus ride from New York to New England, the colors of the autumn trees suddenly made a stranger pass me a pack of tissues.

And then today, my mom, driving through the suburbs of Riga, Latvia, snowflakes as big as cotton balls, falling on our windshield. Otherwise silence.

It reminded me of the blinding whiteness of a birch forest, bright even on the gloomiest of days. Of a constant feeling of history and grandeur, no matter how dark. Running to the lake through the moist woods in the summer, the smell of mushrooms in the soil. Winters of skiing on snowy roads, as if it was just as normal as riding a bike.

It’s was fleeting nostalgia, instant and immediately stolen by the stranger’s kind intrusion, or my mother’s voice, but felt so strongly for that moment, that the memory of each scene forms a film of tears, blurs my vision, reminds me that in my heart, I have a home.

On the Road

March 23rd, 2016 Posted by Tabula Rasa No Comment yet

For those who live far from their childhood home, it’s memory is probably just that, a memory. My house is no longer there, it was demolished years ago, a four-story mammoth stands in its place, it is no longer mine. But the streets that surround it, will always carry random pieces of me.

I never drive through the neighborhood, even though I live in the same city, just minutes away. Memories make me sad for some reason, even the happy ones, I always want to go back and relive them.

Today I found myself driving up the two roads I took when walking to school and back. I started at the high school, looked up to its large front terrace, peeked into the classroom windows. I could see us, hear us, running up and down the basketball courts, slamming locker shut, specific voices, specific faces.

The parking lot, where I was disgusted by my first kiss, so wet and invasive.

A block up, the house of Ms. Matthews, a warm British lady with a dry sense of humor, our English teacher who I liked so much, I’d visited her a few times.

The next block where a car blew a stop sign and hit me while I rode my scooter home, my mom and brother in the car behind me. Nothing happened, I was sure my varsity jacket heavy with patches from sports events saved me.

Then the soccer field where we played softball, where John batted a ball into my crotch and made me grateful for being female.

I turn left and come to the spot where a pervert in a red car had opened his door to show me that he was masturbating in broad daylight. Up the street, the place where dad taught me to ride that scooter that mom told him he should have never bought.

And then the hill. I’d bend over and speed walk, weighed down by a backpack full of textbooks, until I reached the grey gate, Life’s wet nose stuck between the bars, licking my hand to greet me.

Whatever lay beyond the gate, whatever happened in the block of bricks, concrete and wood, is gone. But those streets, they’re mine.

Pieces: a novel

“Pieces” is the winner of the silver medal at the 2017 Independent Publishers Awards (IPPY), and a finalist at the USA Best Book Awards and International Book Awards.

When Clouds Embrace: a children's book

All proceeds from the sales of "When Clouds Embrace" will go to Giving for Greece, a foundation that works to help the hundreds of unaccompanied refugee minors in Greece.