Nes Gadol Hayah Sham
It was one of those autumnally drenched afternoons, when the clouds loom heavily over us pouring their chaotic grey into our eyes that continuously and repeatedly cannot stop looking after the colours of an already-gone-summer; a summer that can survive thanks to our memories seeking for a shelter into her hay-scented warm hug. Mama had dispatched me and Adela to bring the lunch to Jakub. Jakub is my dad, but he was an unlikely father and that makes it difficult to call him “daddy”, so I have always preferred to call him by his first name – a name that to me, little dreamer and drawer, sounded enchanting. It reminded me the old stories about patriarchs that my grandpa used to tell me in the wintertime, when all the other adults were too busy to take care of me, strange child that I was. Fortunately, grandpa loved to narrate and I, I loved to shape paper figures with those words; for words are kaleidoscopic tools of creation working in perfect harmony with the world.
