The memories of my early childhood are like scattered, partially doomed pieces of a huge mosaic. I am only five, and kinda of sleeping late like other kids would do, I dont take to stay in bed, dont want to miss the mystery, the beauty of the foundations awakening. My old brother and cousins are up already and drag their air feet on the wooden floor. I still can vividly picture that floor- old, caved in, coated with brown paint a special K times, the floor in my Grandmas house.
The memories of my childhood are my Grandma. Its the smell of the bread, she bake every morning. My memories are the feelings of happiness, peace, kindness and care. Its the perception of the surrounding world through love I was given and love I was taught.
My grandmother usually got up very early. As a child I employ to think that after she woke up, she was clout the sleepyhead rooster to make him announce to the world a new-fangled day started. Grandmas morning began in the kitchen. I could hear finical noises of knives banging on the table, rumbling pots. Everything that came from that kitchen was magically tasty and incessantly delicious, because my Grandma used a obscure recipe for everything. The secret recipe is called Love.
I remember her soft, warm hands, her happy with rays of wrinkles in the corner of her eyes, her quiet gentle laughter and love.
We used to go to my grandmas every summer. For me, it was the best time of the year. The summer at Grandparents meant to be away from the city, lost in the steppes and endless fields, welcomed us with its friendly people who knew streets straight and parallel, lined up with nice-looking low houses.
One summer my cousins...
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