I was born in a far-away village. We, kids, had much freedom. We often ran to a near-by forest. There was a vast area covered with rhododendron. The glow of its blossom could be seen from the very porch of our family house. It was wonderfully picturesque. Sometimes Mum asked me to pick up a little bit of flowers. She made some tincture for her sore joints. I should mention that some plants in Buryatia are called in a strange way, for example, we call rhododendron as wild rosemary. In the fall our baskets were always full of yellow boletus, milk agarics and saffron milk caps. There was a small airport with a long concrete runway between the village and the forest. So rare were flights that the field, with the exception of the runway itself, represented the multicoloured blanket of gentle snowdrops, yellow poppies and red fiery red lilies. In Buryatish snowdrops are translated as urgy, as for lilies, we call them saranki. Lots of gophers lived in the field. Having raided into sunflower field, we brought seeds dreaming to feed small animals. But they were afraid of us and hid into their sets. When my future husband came to visit Mum for the first time I represented him all my dear places.
More than forty years ago my father died. More than twenty years my Mum is not with me. Our family house was sold. Twice a year we visit the village cemetery to clean the graves. This year we hit on the idea of walking in the forest and the field. It was not just disappointment-it was grief. No mushrooms. No deep forest- only poor lonely trees. And rubbish, hills of rubbish everywhere! We tried to find the airport. But there is no airport anymore. No gopher sets. New streets with straight lines of houses are instead. Nothing but fire traces instead of rhododendron… How can mushrooms grow under the tons of rubbish? Where do snowdrops claim the coming of spring? Where can poppies nod to lilies? Where can gophers dig their holes? People, where is my childhood?
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