#90s - Hello Poetry

All the adults were smoking. This is how I remember the Balkans. Plastic chairs. Apricots. Somebody's uncle repairing something unnecessary. Children running between parked cars like tiny emotionally unstable diplomats. The television inside talked constantly about danger. Meanwhile outside: watermelon, heat, neighbors yelling affectionately from balconies. Nobody explained anything directly. You learned history through atmosphere. You learned fear through lowered voices in kitchens. You learned love because everybody fed you constantly. A woman from the third floor once slapped my face lightly for swearing then gave me cake immediately after. Regional parenting. At night my mother watered plants in silence. Music drifted from somewhere distant. Laughter too. I think adults believed if they kept talking loudly enough the world would not collapse. Honestly? Reasonable strategy. One evening, I asked my father: "Are we going to die?" He looked at me for a long time. Then he lit another cigarette and said: "Finish your apricots." I never asked again. The apricots were good. The war ended. Somehow, both things are connected. I think about that courtyard now when I can't sleep. Not the war. Not the fear. Just the apricots. The plastic chairs. The way my mother watered plants like she was putting small bandages on the whole country. I am still that child, sometimes. Running between parked cars. Waiting for someone to explain everything with a piece of cake.

0

May 3

May 3, 2026 at 8:05 AM UTC

MarcoK

Summer Courtyard, 1998

All the adults were smoking. This is how I remember the Balkans. Plastic chairs. Apricots. Somebody's uncle repairing something unnecessary. Children running between parked cars like tiny emotionally unstable diplomats. The television inside talked constantly about danger. Meanwhile outside: watermelon, heat, neighbors yelling affectionately from balconies. Nobody explained anything directly. You learned history through atmosphere. You learned fear through lowered voices in kitchens. You learned love because everybody fed you constantly. A woman from the third floor once slapped my face lightly for swearing then gave me cake immediately after. Regional parenting. At night my mother watered plants in silence. Music drifted from somewhere distant. Laughter too. I think adults believed if they kept talking loudly enough the world would not collapse. Honestly? Reasonable strategy. One evening, I asked my father: "Are we going to die?" He looked at me for a long time. Then he lit another cigarette and said: "Finish your apricots." I never asked again. The apricots were good. The war ended. Somehow, both things are connected. I think about that courtyard now when I can't sleep. Not the war. Not the fear. Just the apricots. The plastic chairs. The way my mother watered plants like she was putting small bandages on the whole country. I am still that child, sometimes. Running between parked cars. Waiting for someone to explain everything with a piece of cake.