I can feel it now,
that slight breeze
in Montenegro’s orange heat.
I feel the warmth all the way
in my child’s feet.
A child once again,
my friends chase me
around the chicken coop
as I laugh and twirl,
my hair tied in a low ponytail,
just a little farmer’s girl.
Oh, I’d give anything
to walk in my Bika’s old house
with the low ceilings
and white crocheted curtains,
where we once gathered
for the last time
without knowing.
I can feel it now.
My mother calls,
“Time for dinner,”
as Deda walks into the cow stalls.
I run home.
Up the hill we go.
I’d do anything now
to move up those mountains
like we once used to
when we were small.
Bika’s house no longer stands.
May Deda’s grave be weightless.
And I’m no longer a little girl.
Oh, these montenegrin memories.
Feb 24
Feb 24, 2026 at 12:41 AM UTC
I can feel it now,
that slight breeze
in Montenegro’s orange heat.
I feel the warmth all the way
in my child’s feet.
A child once again,
my friends chase me
around the chicken coop
as I laugh and twirl,
my hair tied in a low ponytail,
just a little farmer’s girl.
Oh, I’d give anything
to walk in my Bika’s old house
with the low ceilings
and white crocheted curtains,
where we once gathered
for the last time
without knowing.
I can feel it now.
My mother calls,
“Time for dinner,”
as Deda walks into the cow stalls.
I run home.
Up the hill we go.
I’d do anything now
to move up those mountains
like we once used to
when we were small.
Bika’s house no longer stands.
May Deda’s grave be weightless.
And I’m no longer a little girl.
Oh, these montenegrin memories.
