Nostalgia for a House in Turda, Romania

I rest my cheek on the peeling wall
and my hands on the curtains my grandmother embroidered.
This is where I spent my first eleven summers
and left pieces of me scattered:
ten black markings on the wall where I grew,
crayon marks on furniture, tricyle scratches in the wood floor.
I am part of the house my grandfather built.
I smell her sarmale, his wine fermenting in barrels in the basement.
The pitch of their voices resonates within me.
I hear myself apologize for leaving them and listen
to silence. Church bells churn in the distance.
I imagine a suspended metronome measuring the way
time is unforgiving.

Time is unforgiving.
I imagine a suspended metronome measuring the
silence.  Church bells churn in the distance.
I hear myself apologize for leaving them and feel
the pitch of their cries as it resonates within me.
I smell her sarmale, his wine fermenting in barrels in the basement.
I am part of the house my grandfather built.
Crayon marks on furniture, tricycle scratches in the wood floor.
Ten pen markings on the wall where I grew.
I’ve left pieces of me scattered everywhere.
This is where I spent my first eleven summers,
watched my grandmother embroider her curtains.
I rest my cheek on the peeling wall.

***

Gabriela Suarez lives in Miami. She is a graduate student at Florida International University’s MFA program with a concentration in fiction. She’s currently working on a suspense novel set in her native country of Romania.