Like many children raised during the communist era in South-East Europe, my early years were spent in the countryside, surrounded by grandparents, animals, and the simplicity of village life. My days were filled with sourdough bread, muddy puddles, and dirt under my fingernails, the kind of childhood where “fun” meant chasing chickens instead of Wi-Fi signals.

I remember my grandmother with deep nostalgia. She had lived through so much: raising two mischievous boys, losing two others along the way, and yet she carried herself with a serenity that made her seem untouchable. To me, she was warmth itself, steady as the sun. Imperfect in the eyes of others, but to me, perfect. She was my only constant. It was just us, in that big house with the big garden, two generations building a universe together. Her job was to keep me alive; mine was to play, explore, and grow.

My mother had to return to work when I was very young, the norm under communism. Women went back to the workforce quickly, and children either ended up in daycare or in the arms of grandparents. I don’t remember how I landed in that small village or if I understood why. What I do remember is the ache of feeling left behind. I couldn’t grasp why I wasn’t in the gray city apartment with my parents every day, like my older brother, basking in their hugs instead of counting down to weekend visits.

My earliest memories are vivid. A pile of sand in my grandmother’s yard, toys scattered around, me refusing to eat a goddamn egg because playtime was far more important. She chased me around with spoons full of whatever she’d cooked from the garden, and I ran, laughing, dodging, bargaining. Every time I stopped to catch my breath, she’d sneak in another bite. It’s no wonder I grew up thin. Food was never my priority; curiosity and play always won.

The small world at my grandma’s cottage felt magical. I see it even now: the flower-filled yard, rose bushes, the grain storage, the toilet at the back of the garden (because of course bathrooms weren’t inside). The grapevine stretched across the courtyard, shading us from the scorching sun. The room where I slept beside her seemed enormous then, though today it feels impossibly small.

I remember winter nights by the terracotta fireplace with its little arched metal door, radiating summer warmth into the coldest days. Across the room stood the lamp radio, the black-and-white TV with barely anything worth watching, my grandmother’s knitting machine from Germany (she made vests for half the village on it), and her sewing machine, my treasure chest of threads, needles, and little marvels to play with.

This year, I returned. The place felt smaller, transformed, no longer the universe of my childhood. Another grandmother lives there now, carrying her own grief after losing her husband. But that’s a story for another day. I also visited my grandmother’s resting place. She lies there now with her best companions — her husband and children. Last year, my father decided to join her. Twenty years apart was too much.

Now they all rest together, free from pain, leaving behind a tapestry of memories. Some joyful, some sorrowful, all tangled together. But that’s life in the end, a kaleidoscope of moments, each shard of color shaping who we are.