I sat on the wooden chair in the cool living room, happy to be back in the guest position. My feet couldn't reach the floor, so I dangled my bruised and scratched legs while I waited for my "treatment", trying to arrange the crocheted pillow under my bottom so I wouldn't freeze (because in the country rooms it was cool even in the hottest summers). I even had time to break the shell off my bruised knee a few days ago, to sweeten the wait. And to "evaluate" the pocket full of stones of the bib overalls, which were barely able to handle the weight.

I always felt wonderful in Mrs. G's house. I myself was a special guest: a little girl of about 8 years old, in love with the stories of her elders and recently lost her first grandfather, she sought the company of everyone her age, with whom she could reminisce. And among many other stories, I found out secrets that I thought only I had the chance to hear. I was at the beginning of my priceless collection of memories.

I didn't even let anyone know when I was going to visit. I would grab a few flowers from the garden to make a bouquet (because you don't go to visit empty-handed, and besides, I always had a garden full of great flowers!) and run out the gate. Or I would jump the fence through the garden, if Grandma was in the yard and could turn me away.

Boredom could reach its peak in the country, during the scorching summer holidays, especially when my best friends were away somewhere. So, if I didn't have any fruit to pick, it was too hot to go fishing, no animals were born on the farm in the village or in the neighborhood (to enjoy the event and possibly christen it) or I didn't have anyone to plan some mischief with, I would set up shop in the yard of my much older friends, essentially my family's friends and neighbors. Looking back, I have the feeling that I was very dear to them, so confused, restless and eternally curious, always eager to help them and lend my little shoulder to the job. I would appear like a leprechaun, out of nowhere, always blushing and with my pigtails tousled.

I knew exactly what to expect, in each of the welcoming homes where I was a guest. Mrs. G. would pamper me with jam (I can still smell its aroma!) and cold syrup, sometimes with cookies or carefully preserved cozonac and, after placing the tray within reach, she would start telling me, most often with wet eyes, about the achievements of her two grandchildren, future doctors. About how ambitious and busy they are. I would sip her words voraciously and I was almost afraid to breathe, lest I lose one. I also knew the photos in the album by heart, but I never refused a new pass through the thick pages, protected by a thin and transparent one. I would discreetly wipe my fingers dirty with jam, most of the time on my pants or T-shirt (until I reached the napkin), so as not to leave marks on the iconic album.

Mrs. G. had a long face, with a small mouth that seemed to me to be heart-shaped. Her voice still echoed in my mind, decades later. She spoke slowly and softly, and had a distinct timbre. I never found it again among the others I heard later. She pronounced her words in a unique way, as if she were rolling round pebbles in a crystal bowl or like a turtledove singing under the shelter of an eaves. She would sit next to me, arranging her kerchief that tamed her white hair, tied back, with a special distinction, then place her hands in her lap. Her fingers were slightly knobby but delicate, like those of a former teacher caressing little fingers learning to hold pens. She would always tease me and, after asking me about school and I would brag about my final year grades (to which I would add my sister's, to give myself some importance!) she would make me tell her about what was happening in the village, because she hardly ever left the yard. And I knew everything, in great detail and down to the smallest details, in the chronological order of their unfolding. I would somehow bring up Mr. G., just in case I found out some unknown story in which I would find my grandfather, they just knew each other well. She would notice. She would smile and reach out to comfort me. I would look away, because I didn't want to cry. She would tell me that it was good to miss her. That I didn't have to suffer, that's the way life goes. And that, no matter how much he loved me and how close we were to each other, he would never stop being by my side and giving me answers. May it be from Above. He would tell me that grandparents never go too far from their grandchildren, they just retire to rest. I didn't really understand that, although I never saw my grandmother resting, so it was something to think about.

I still marvel at the patience with which she would waste hours, or how much patience I had, in the company of an 8-year-old napper! She knew the answer every time, but she would still ask me if I had announced at home that I was going to visit. And, although she sensed where I would be heading when I left the gate, she would ask me, complicit, if I didn't want to pick a bouquet of flowers from her yard too? I would accept timidly, then wait, climbing the fence, for her to return with a pair of scissors; the flowers weren't picked anyway. She would follow me with her eyes from in front of the gate and I would hop away. In one hand I would hold the flowers from Mrs. G's yard, with the other I would wave goodbye and shout "bye!" for dozens of steps. Then, as she suspected, I would stray from the path home, to the place that had become a refuge since I had been orphaned by him. I would stop every now and then to throw a stone from my pocket. Not to recognize the way back, but to make way for new ones. There was still a long way until sunset and I would have time to pass by the stream, after my secret stop, on the bench under the weeping willow.