The memories of my early childhood are like scattered, partially lost pieces of a huge mosaic.
I am only five, and instead of sleeping late like other kids would do, I don't want to stay in bed, don't want to miss the mystery, the beauty of the world's awakening.
She tells of how, while still a young girl, she went to wake up her ammamma, who had overslept.
"Ammamma startled, tried to get up and then fell back on the bed.
My older brother and cousins are up already and drag their bare feet on the wooden floor.
I still can vividly picture that floor- old, caved in, coated with brown paint a thousand times, the floor in my Grandma's house. It's the smell of the bread, she baked every morning.
My memories are the feelings of happiness, peace, kindness and care.
It's the perception of the surrounding world through love I was given and love I was taught. As a child I used to think that after she woke up, she was pulling the sleepyhead rooster to make him announce to the world a new day started. I could hear fussy noises of knives banging on the table, rumbling pots. 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 little houses.
When I was quite young, she would teasingly scare my younger brother and I when she would take out her false teeth and put them in a glass of water for the night.
Then she would grin at us..we would run out of the room, play-screaming! I can still remember how she would laugh and laugh about that.