He was never showing up home empty handed: a wooden train made or a colouring book were always hidden at my uncle's back, with a pat on the head. Be nice. That's what uncle used to say and then he was closing the door so he can talk adult things with my mum. His visits were short timed, long enough to play with my train. My mother was hugging him tight when he was leaving and then always ordered me not to tell my father about the visit. One day, uncle disappeared off the face of the earth and mother got sad. As a compensation for my uncle's disappearance, I received a baby brother.
Yuka Brevi
His hair was blonde, curly and very rough. More like a mace. Not even the sun or the wind was touching it. Practically, it was indestructible. His barber had to be as strong as Ghiță on the thresher, enduring like Osho in ashram and wise just as Lama in Tibet. In winter, it was keeping him warm like a genetically modified Russian rabbit shapka. Nobody knew and, over time, they were no longer curious to find out who Gheorghe, my mother's brother, resembled. They blamed it on their ancestors, brave people, dragon tamers.
Octavia Buhociu
Hepatitis. In the second grade. Home for a month. Who was going to stay with me at least eight hours a day? Just oldman Ghiță from the countryside. In the beginning, I didn't want him...what was he going to talk about? Probably just about goats, donkeys, oxes, hens, piggies, cats and doggies, I've seen many times. But surprisingly, he spoke to me about the journey ofNils in Sweden and came to me with the book. And he taught me two poems I did not know back then: Angel, My Angel and Lord's Prayer. Be careful, never to say them in school. They are for home, when you go to sleep, and when you wake up.
(Translated by Constantin Grigorescu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.