The Narev, Ostrolenka Poland

The river, which lay out before me was a memory of untold stories. There was the story of my grandfather who meandered about here years ago, contemplating his escape to who knows where. Then there were the stories of his family who fled this place abruptly from the onslought of a war which would later take their lives. They all walked here and some played and tossed about like the ripling currents which passed through here. I too arrived to this place,shaken by the silence, and the not so still waters which moved swiftly against a subtle breeze. There were children here as well; and for a sudden moment time stopped, and i saw my grandfather once again as a boy playing and perhaps contemplating his next great journey.

Leaves

It did not matter that the last of the leaves would still linger after a long winter. He walked his usual course, until he stumbled upon the leaves and still had managed to recollect a distant memory, somewhere in the crevices of his childhood, where the sword of experience had not yet penetrated his soul. It was always the leaves which brought him back, even now among the concrete earth he walks on and the blistering heat of summer,which have no memory and no soul.

San Simone.

Monica knew about the priest and his little secret. How she knew, I would never know. But she knew. She herself had been full of mysteries planted in her from an archaic and somewhat medieval childhood. San Simone where she lived, was medieval in its own particular way. There was never a moment there where you felt apart of this modern world. Even the people living there seemed to trudge through their daily lives with A heavy step, expecting some grand revelation to drop out of their small sky. But no revelation ever arrived, and life continued to move in its slow and labored way, as though time had stopped there for good, or at least for A while. I always returned there, if even for A day or two, just to take in that ancient air, especially when A slighted breeze would press lightly against my face. The good priest was always there to greet me with his curled smile and Monica with her fragrant long curled red hair, would walk with me towards the town center. Our steps were heavy and the closer we got the more heavy the air felt, but somehow we continued on, thinking that there was something there for us to see.

San Simone

The name of the village where my good friends lived was called San Simone. Even in the hard winters where only a teasing flower held on to its last breath, one can find the timeless charm that was there. I found favor among everyone I met there. And even those i did not meet soon arrived in the picture, as this was a small place. The train i was in was headed east now on a new journey,moving away from San Simone. But somehow the more east I went,the more I was reminded of San Simone and all my unresolved experiences there,which up till now I had kept at bay. All kinds of mysteries from San Simone krept up into my wearied brain. Naturally I was somewhat relieved to finally be on my way, away from that thorny place; And yet San Simone kept creeping in,like a a wintered mouse seeking the warmth of a nostalgic attic. But one thing I may never know, and this to some extend is the fault of Monica,who had been so guarded and reluctant in giving me any information in regards to the speeding priest, to the point that even she herself pretended to have forgotten the matter altogether. She could only turn her head away from the questions and try to change the subject, which usually focused on the children in some trivial detail which only a new mother would truly know. It was only years later that I found out that the Priest had a biblical addiction of the worst kind, called "Jewish Karate". Do I need to elaborate more?

East

The dark green lush of the passing countryside penetrated my tired soul. I knew I was headed toward a more open landscape, where the trees stood in open distance and the land opened up, as though it awaited a welcoming.The train moved in darkness and even with my weary eyes I could glimpse the flashing lights of small villages where here and there a sole light had so far not been extinguished. Than the darkness became more profound as we slowly made our way into the bordered mountains. I closed my eyes and found myself thinking about my good friends I left behind. Somehow the good priest came up in my thoughts, as I recalled his abrupt escape from my presence in the local olive grove. I wondered again, what made him bolt so quickly as to have left his good book behind. I remember once in my many rambling conversations with Monica how in speaking about the priest, she had mentioned in passing that he had secrets. Of course being the good catholic that she was, she never elaborated nor gave even a hint. I was left now only with my imagination.