Fiction story inspired by Romania.

I started to write a fiction story, inspired by Romania. Here is an excerpt. What do you think ? Do you get curious ? Let me know your spontaneous impression.

She was in the village with the love of her life, her husband, soulmate and  perhaps her greatest challenge ever. Their relationship was like a manifest. A manifest of deep love, love that could not be described in words, not even by the most eloquent poet. It was  a love that was expressed from the depths of the soul,  through the eternal regard in their eyes and   through their hearts indescribable language. Their relationship was  a contemporary story of Romeo and Juliet, a Cold War story about how East and West could met.  It was also a bitter tale of anger, frustration, disappointment, prejudice and hatred. It was the story of our Europe at the beginning of the millennium. The story had large portions of passion and longing, dor, of proximity and a sense of feeling complete with the other. Hot and cold, darkness and light, strong and weak, love and hate. Everything was there.

She often felt a strong, warm sensation and  a desire to melt with him, her man. She wanted to melt like  drops of honey melt on freshly baked bread.  He was tall and dark 1.86 cm tall, broad-shouldered, had long arms, and believed in God.  He was just like in her dreams. He had big, brown eyes with eyelids hanging down on the sides, and she thought he was incredibly sensual. He had thick eyebrows that framed his face in a very masculine way. His nose was classically straight, as an antique sculpture, and his skin was golden. He had a dimple in his chin and he had a captivating smile. When he laughed all Bucharest could hear him. When he had fun, he was  an afternoon by  the Delta, he was an morning by the Black Sea, he was the mountains, and he was the history of his tara, land. When he laughed, he sang  a song that was passed through eternal times, to the days when the first Europeans came over  the European continent, from the east, and started to inhabit the European land.

The old woman who was sitting on the steps outside the house, looked to be at least 100 years old. Whatever you asked her, she had an answer. It looked like the whole world was captured inside her. Heaven and earth, the sun, the moon, day and night, winter and spring, summer and autumn. All colours were within her and all shapes. She loved to tell stories from her own life,  and tales of  the Romanian folklore.
She had understood that there was the forces of good and evil in the world. That man was made up of both. It was our individual task to succeed to tame the evil within ourselves and let the good part of us blossom. She had understood that the world had both love and hate, and that life was about giving  to others, helping others,  and touching one another. She knew what it meant to be kind.

Her hands were wrinkled like the trunk of an ancient tree, which stood tall throughout all weather. Her hands had touched and held her own four children.  Her hands had kneaded dough and baked bread. Her hands had been carrying water during winter and washed clothes outdoors. Her hands had caressed the face of her husband, in younger days. Now he was dead since a couple of  years.
Her husband was from Moldova, but had settled in Romania before the Russians took Moldova. The old woman was Romanian and they had  been deeply in love. The love had grown stronger through the years. It had been tried, worn, challenged, soaked, wrecked, mended, and –  it lasted. There were times when  they had almost lost hope about each other, when challenges had been overwhealming. Especially during the war times and the Ceausescu- period. Their love was strong enough. It was true love that endured  distance, time, space, stress, poverty, politics, finance, emotional storms and doubts.
When people asked her what the recipe was, for a long and happy life,  she always answered  in the same way.
“Always be positive. Have faith that things will work out. Do not worry. Sing a bit  each day. Dance the “hora”  during the weekend. Hug and caress each other often. Smile. Create things with your  hands. Be with your family and friends. Eat food from your own garden if you can. Read. If you can not read, then  listen to  stories, real and imaginary. Make your own clothes. Be thrifty. Be kind with nature. Do not hate. Love. ”

Maria looked at the old lady and realized something important.

Now Maria  knew what her own purpose was.

She was so scared every night when darkness came and solitude shadowed her. The fear attacked the body, and she could barely breathe. She prayed and talked  a lot to God. She prayed for strength and confidence, a belief that things would get better. She realized that she had to take her fears and do something about them. Otherwise, they would never go away and her sight would be scattered with fear. Actions from fear are no good actions.

The old woman was a weaver, and she used to sit and weave magic weaves. They were magical because  they were made by her own hands, from the heart. She was weaving in the evening, as evenings were great for big dreams and magic. The cloth grew out of love and  the colors blossomed and danced forth on the weave,  like roses bloom in a rose garden. The patterns she wove were ancient symbols that spoke of birth, death, love, joy, marriage, grief, time, place, indeed the whole life could be interpreted in the fabric.
When she was not weaving  she embroidered. The patterns and symbols traveled from her soul and onto the blouses, which she embroidered. There were symbols of old and young. For strength, faith and for eternity. Sometimes she wove carpets. Thick, heavy rugs that were comfortable to walk in the winter. The patterns were colorful, symmetrical and elegant. She loved to weave floral pattern. The flowers brought up life in a winter house. When it was cold and barren outside, the rug would  brighten up her home.

This is fiction.

Yvette Larsson, Helsingborg, Sweden, December 2014. 

One thought on “Fiction story inspired by Romania.

  1. You really want us to believe that this is a pure fiction? Just that physical description of “he” is too precise ;o) Btw is “soulmate” also fiction?

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