I must tell you... I must! It was evening, I had just gotten home from work, when I heard a knock at the door. I opened it and it was our neighbor. She had in her hand a plate with a few pieces of baked quince. They were from her mother's yard, and because she had baked some, she thought of bringing some to us too. When I heard this, I was so moved that I hugged her and started to cry. I hadn't eaten baked quince in at least 30 years... since my mother passed away... She, my mother, when we asked for something sweet, would quickly put a few quinces in the oven, bake them, and share them equally among all of us.
Why did it move me so much, though? Because all my memories were stirred within me. The image of my mother, with her kitchen apron around her neck and her hands full of fruits and doughnuts, standing in front of the stairs, with a crowd of children around her... That's how she was. My mother. Every time the neighbors' children were outside and my mother opened the door, all of them, absolutely all of them, would stop playing and run towards her, waiting to see what else she had brought them this time.
I remember the pantry full of jams and compotes. Every time someone came to visit us, they would leave with at least one jar of jam in their bag. We were children and didn't fully understand some things... somehow this love, this desire to share, to bring joy, seemed natural. It was a normal state of affairs. However, I know that when she went to the Lord, we, the four siblings, understood how many people loved her, because hundreds of candles were left behind by those who had come to say goodbye. For all these things, I was moved. Because our neighbor, almost every time she makes 'something good,' also knocks on our door...
I miss it! I miss this feeling of normality! This mother's heart! Someone who occasionally brings food packages to lonely elderly people told me that once a 92-year-old woman didn't want to eat until the person who had brought the gift sat down at the table too. She told him: 'My dear, the food won't go down. It gets stuck in my throat like a lump if I know you're hungry. And besides, my dear, what you give, the Lord brings back!'
How did we come to lose this love? We've raised so many barriers, installed intercoms, and built walls ever higher. The paths behind the yard, on which we used to sneak to each other's houses when we were children, have disappeared. If we have leftover food, we throw it away, so as not to be ashamed to give it to a poor person, or we put it in the freezer. And if the freezer fills up, we buy another one. And so the heart froze — as Gheronda Damaschin Grigoriatul used to say — it froze along with all the food stored in the freezers. We have lost our joy. For these things, I cried all evening. A handful of baked quinces, smelling of love, transformed our evening into a warm and sweet memory.
I long, I long for my mother, loving and giving love. Faith, Hope, and Love. When those two falter, she will remain, love with the scent of baked quinces...
Jenica Gavrilă