THE LOST YARD OF MY CHILDHOOD

THE LOST YARD OF MY CHILDHOOD, short story, published with KR BALKAN, Belgrad 2017. Publisher Stevan Krstec

This short story is the big mirror of my life

I grew up barefoot in my village, freely running through the neighbors' backyards. Around my home, the place I was miraculously borne- the village school, no one lives now except for the names carved on the benches. The yard of my childhood is deserted today. Ljubina River shrinks from time to time and turns into a narrow stream. At the bottom of the river, you will find the remains of houses destroyed in the war, staring at you like ghosts from the past. Then the river swells up again, turning into a frenzied dragon from whose mouth the heavy floods destroy newly renovated houses. After a while, the river calms down again and becomes so tame and clear that you could just caress it with your hand and wish you could immerse yourself in its depths, like you once did in your happy childhood days. When you emerge and look around, your gaze is blurred by the wilderness, and a small bush has turned into a thick tall branch ominously hanging over the river. The wind gusts bend thin willows in bloom. A lonely rosebush reminds us of what was once my mother’s beloved garden. But the solely rose has also bowed its head in sadness knowing that no one has caressed it for a long time. My father's cherry tree does not know why and for whom it would bear fruit. In its solitude, the tree desperately wonders if it will counter the wind before it breaks its branches, or if it will stay alive to make some stray hungry child happy. The acacia tree, once fluffy white, has yellowed with loneliness. And next to it sits a lilac tree, hanging half-witted, as if it does not even know what to do with itself in this devastated village, where not so long ago, you could hear the merry cries of children and Saturday wedding songs.

And I am somewhere in the world, leaning against the window of my new home, looking at the green yard illuminated with the golden rays of the sun, where my little girl jumps up in white shoes. Then, when she approaches the neighbor's fence, curiously peering through the cracks, I scream out afraid: “Don't go into someone else's yard!”

Natasha Bartula