Hold On, But Don't Hold Still by Kristina Kuzmic

Author:Kristina Kuzmic
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2020-02-10T16:00:00+00:00

Nine

Ne brini. Divno je.

My baka (Croatian for “grandma”) and I were always close. From a very young age, I felt like she understood me. My hyper, animated personality could be too much for some adults. Not for her. I spent a lot of my childhood at her house in Serbia. I loved visiting her so much that every time I had to leave, I’d hold on to her, kissing her face, my eyes full of tears, thanking her for everything. She’d take my little hands into hers and say, “Don’t cry. I’ll see you again.”

To get to my baka’s house, we passed through a red metal gate and were then greeted by the perfume of the roses in her garden and the bright, sweet scent of strawberries and the sight of a gorgeous apricot tree.

My grandfather traveled occasionally, and when he did, I would get to sleep next to my baka in her bed. There was nothing better! I’d get all snuggled up in her big down comforter and ask her question after question. She’d indulge me and answer, saying, “Okay, but this is the last one I’m answering and then we have to get to sleep.” Before she could object, though, I’d ask another one and she’d answer that one, too. I loved our late-night talks. She had this wonderful way of meeting me at my level but without ever patronizing me.

In the morning, I’d wake up to find her gone, and her side of the bed already neatly made, the white duvet with its tiny pastel floral print folded into tidy thirds and the matching square pillow fluffed. I’d rush to quickly make my side of the bed, but it never looked as neatly made as hers. I couldn’t be bothered with making the bed perfect when I knew a perfectly great day was waiting for me. I’d run outside and see her in the garden watering the strawberries and tending to her roses. Sometimes she’d even talk to them, whispering to a wilting flower that any other person would have seen as hopeless, snipped off, and tossed. “You’re still lovely,” she’d say. My baka would look up from her garden, notice me still in my pajamas, and send me to get dressed for the busy day ahead.

Our busy days were all the same. We’d get on our bikes and ride to the market. (My grandmother didn’t get her driver’s license until she moved to the United States when she was in her seventies, after taking driver’s ed in a foreign country with a bunch of sixteen-year-olds.) I’d follow my baka’s bicycle over dirt roads into the center of town, while we sang silly songs at the top of our lungs the whole way. When we reached the downtown, we’d bump over cobblestones and trolley tracks and then arrive at the busy open-air market.

Once there, we’d talk about our cooking plans for the day and weave our way through the tables of fruit and vegetables looking for inspiration.

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