Reta

In the tapestry of our family’s history, there’s a thread that shimmers with the resilience of Basarabian spirit, woven through the lives of my mother and her aunt. As I sit here, listening to the tales spun by this remarkable woman, I can almost see the scenes unfold before me, painted in the rich hues of memory and emotion.

The story begins in 1966, when my mother was born into a world divided by invisible lines. Two years later, an invitation arrived from my father’s aunt in Italy, a beacon of hope in a time when leaving Romania was a near-impossible dream. But dreams, as they often do, came with a price. My parents, young and full of hope, had to make an impossible choice—to leave me behind.

I was entrusted to the care of Mama Mare, my grandmother, a woman whose love was as vast as the Basarabian plains. In her home, just a 20-minute walk from where my parents had lived, I found a world of warmth and wisdom. Mama Mare’s house was more than just walls and a roof; it was a sanctuary where love flowed as freely as the stories she told.

When my parents finally reached Italy, voices whispered temptations of a better life, urging them to stay. My father, perhaps seeing opportunity in this new land, was inclined to listen. But my mother, oh, her heart was torn in two. She knew too well the pain of separation—14 years without her own mother had left scars that time could not erase. The fear of losing me, as she had once been lost, was a weight too heavy to bear.

And so, they returned, defying the well-meaning advice of those who couldn’t understand the pull of home, of family, of roots that run deeper than any promise of prosperity.

As I grew, I learned of the strict control at the border between Romania and Basarabia, then part of the USSR. Not even letters could cross that line, as if words themselves were contraband. It was in this divided world that my mother’s family had been torn apart, with my great-grandmother and her daughter—my grandmother—left stranded in Basarabia.

They lived in Lencauti, Moldova, in what was once the servants’ quarters of a grand estate. My great-grandmother, once a landowner with workers at her command, found herself confined to a single room, stripped of everything but her dignity and her love for her granddaughter.

Years later, when I was in the eighth grade, I visited that place. The house still stood, a testament to endurance. Inside, I saw paintings on glass, vibrant and alive, depicting scenes from our folklore. The flowers in these artworks bloomed as brightly as those in traditional costumes, reminiscent of church stained glass. It was as if the very soul of our people had been captured and preserved within those walls.

The story of my family is one of choices made in the face of impossible circumstances. It’s a tale of love that reaches across borders, of the strength found in keeping one’s spirit alive when the world seems determined to extinguish it. My mother’s decision to return, to reunite our family despite the allure of a potentially easier life, speaks to a courage that runs in our blood.

As I listen to these stories, I feel the weight of this legacy. I am the artist, the keeper of these tales, tasked with capturing the essence of our family’s journey. My heart opens wide, embracing every detail, every wrinkle in time, every moment of love lost and found again.

In the end, I realize that my whole life has felt like showing up to the wrong party, as if the invitation was for the house next door. But in these stories, in the love that has been passed down through generations, I find my place. I am not at the wrong party; I am exactly where I need to be, carrying forward the flame of those who came before me, their struggles and triumphs etched into my very being.

For in these stories, I find not just my history, but the very pulse of what it means to be human – to endure, to love, and to find beauty even in the darkest of times. And isn’t that, after all, the greatest invitation of all?