Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine … 

I entered the room and I knew…she was dead.

I ran out and remembered the first time I met a death. I was only nine when I woke up that morning. There was my aunty, standing in front of the oven, preparing food, as usual. She turned, her eyes were lost tired and with no hesitation, she said, that my grandmother is dead.

As then, also now, my lung filled with the scent of colorful roses from my grandmother’s garden, my ears were flooded with my mother’s cry, and carried me back into long gone past… and I stood there while time flushed its freezing force upon me. To my childish brain, all that happened seemed shocking and bizarre, not because of the death that came silently and unannounced, but because of devastation, it left behind itself. My mother was falling apart, one of my aunts was screaming … and there were people all around, pushing me away, hugging my mother and her sisters in the infinite and scary cry. I felt sick of a scent of those women’s breath, the scent of a fabric of their clothes which all had the aroma of the perfume they believed came from Mecca and Medina, of their kerchiefs … And quietly, the most quietly as I could I sneaked out and I ran to the top of the hill behind the house … From there I could see other hill and a small abandoned cottage forgotten in the chase of time … and I surrendered myself to imagination and wishes of being there living among Grivar’s children from Bevk‘s* novel … everything seems possible when you are a child …

I remembered my grandparents and how nice and warm it was. Although we’d sleep on the floor, all in the same room, it still was cozy and soft … it wasn’t due to soft cushions and pillows … it was because of their love and tranquility that they spread all around the house. It was because of the safety, it was a small remaining part of stable past in which you could hide from the unstoppable march of progressivism and time eating machine. Their smile was adorned with roses and flowers of their garden … and grapes above the terrasse where we’d rest and hide from rays of summer sun.


Yes, it was always as if it was a holiday when we came to visit my grandparents. But that morning something happened which will forever change my perspective on life. Something that will make me think about life beyond boundaries, beyond our other senses but heart.

That night … I met death again. All I knew what to do was to run out into a cold, February night …

18th of February it was … the day when doors of infinite dark opened again near me and swallowed one more part of my love … merciless, not even for a moment stopping to reconsider its action. A day, when unseen and an unnoticed curtain dividing two worlds lifted and separated you from us. The night when I felt the presence of that horrific energy Mozart was overwhelmed with when creating his Requiem … D minor entered my veins and I stood weak and helpless in front of that majestic force. Numb, not knowing exactly what happened and what that means … end of a friendship, end of some routines, some talks, some walks, some new adventures … end of you in my future. Not because I left, or because we argued … no, we were friends until yesterday when I promised that I will help you to graduate … one more promise I won’t keep … and not because of my lying nature …

The thought of heaven should comfort me … but wasn’t heaven your smile? Wasn’t heaven drinking coffee in the park while we walked your dogs? How can I imagine other heavens than you? They say you are in better place now … but all I can see are your ashes. Nothing is left from your young flesh … just some urn. They say you are waiting for us there, in that happy place, Eden, paradise … and I really wish that would be true … but all I can see are ashes, is this urn … Maybe in my life, I missed some special lessons and moments when all those fairytales should be incorporated into my head, that makes people live their lives between these ground and a sky … lessons that make their lives in moments like these easier, and they cope with all those deaths with peace and patience, knowing, that all those innocent people are now in the better place, guarded by God. But, also this ground should in those fairy tales be guarded by him … and they are not … what guarantees then, that paradise is really that magical place God protect from evil, pain, and sickness? I guess I am already too old to grasp that knowledge … I lack that imagination … maybe people should feel pity for me because of that … but all I can see left from you is that urn which scares me. And I know that fear is true root for all those colorful hopes and stories … and maybe I lack imagination … but I am strong enough to face that fear.

And I have oboe, and there is a scent of acacia … with which I can fly with you while humans with no decency are ruining our paths in the woods, where we walked and scared birds with our laughter. Nothing is sacred to them. Not even that tree under which we learned to smoke. Not even acacia that has listened to all our secrets and guarded them … not even woods that have hidden us from judging eyes of adults … they cut those majestic birches that would offer us shadow in long summer days … yes, they are changing our world and it seems as there is no place for the memory of us and our youth.

They say end represents a beginning … they are right. For your end represented the beginning of agony, beginning of times without compass, without the star of the north … yes, your end represented the beginning of the truth.

Luceat eis


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