Storytime:                                                                                                        

In ’95 I visited my father’s family in Kosove. Having been born and raised in NYC, this was a culture shock that I relished. I loved Kosove, and being a child, I saw things very differently than my parents (this was “para luftes” of course and I was blissfully unaware of any tensions or pre-war rumblings).

While we were there, we took a trip to visit my mother’s cousin in Ferizaj. This was particularly exciting, since my mother’s family is from Tropoje and whoever managed to escape Enver Hoxha’s communist regime had emigrated to America.

I disliked Ferizaj, which in hindsight may be unfair since I honestly don’t remember much about it except the dust and how boring it seemed to me at the time, but I loved my mother’s family. My little cousins were sweet and fun, and for the few days that we stayed over, we had a great time together.

            I remember one of their neighbors, who was very kind and would often come over. She was older than me but did not carry the haughtiness some teenage girls have towards younger children. I quickly learned that she was artsy, like me, and the day I left she gifted this painting to me, a still life she had done herself.

            I don’t have many pieces of art in my home, other than my own work and a drawing by my best friend (and if you count my kid’s drawings on the fridge), but this is one that will always be displayed. It reminds me of a happy time in my childhood, of pleasant memories from a place that has known so much violence, and of a stranger that became my friend for life.