In the kitchen of the house made of mud granny would make rose jam, and inside me smells of love and past. I still wonder how, pious at the Sunday mass, she would see me wiping my nose on my sleeve. How she would lay lavender under the pillow, so fairy tales would pile up at night. How her calloused hands would wipe away all the tears so gently. Hers mile from the gate's entrance has heaven in it, and the gate only opens up inward. There is space for love. My eyes begin to glow. Butterflies start to make their appearance on the porch.
David Brescan
You, the one with big ears, I know you've won the Nobel Prize for peace. Yes, fat guy, I know you died starving. Big Nose, I know you were thirsty. Of alcohol. Yes, you two have been gentle and merciful and cried all your life. Over men. And that one toothless next to you was poor in spirit, the poor man. Everything is written in this big book. Don't push, you'll knock down the fence. You all have the right to enter, but I cannot open the gate, I've lost the keys. Playing dice, with Old Nick. Stop screaming, you'll wake up the Boss.
Dana Tunduc
Maundy Thursday. Big commotion, early in the morning. Grandpa knew that it was a big day, otherwise he wouldn't wake up so early in the morning to start the fire in the stove and feed the poultry. My grandmother tells me in haste that the incense burner has to be rubbed carefully, since the village priest did not give it to her for safekeeping for no reason. And as she was drowning in her chores, I started acting hardworking. I'll tell you a secret, ashes are the best. Proud as I was of the result, I see my grandmother with the sun on her face, saying that this is how we open heaven's gate.
(Translated by Ana Maria Mitruș / 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.