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My dreams have a home in Gjirokastra

2024-08-17 20:50:26Pikëpamje SHKRUAR NGA ORNELA ÇUçI

My dreams have a home in Gjirokastra

By Ornela Çuçi

I've been seeing all my dreams in Hazmurat for some time. As at the Çuçatë square chatting with Nila, as above the gate at Xhikua, as in the great room, with mother Nezon, where every Sunday morning I made fairy tales with my mind, letting my imagination run wild with the rosettes on the ceiling. Tales from those "take from the basket and put inside", as mother Nezua used to say.

Is childhood the taste that haunts us all our lives, or is it simply an indication that I can do whatever I want to be young in the face, but the years call aging in every way?! Come on, you already know that you can play with the mirror as you want...


That old, native house has a strange power. Still, in the silence of the nights, I find myself walking through its familiar rooms, like a visitor in a distant time. So distant and so sweet to me. The door to the sofa slowly creaks when I open it with my mind, I can smell the black tiles painted on the side with red paint, freshly washed. The mother who resolutely washed them with her knees on the ground, because otherwise the children were not washed. Then, my joy when my mother told me that I had learned to bathe properly for the first time, and I don't even know if I had gone to first grade yet.

There, in the dream, everything is as before. The floors creaking under the weight of the steps of memories, the windows of the room illuminated by the pale moon, and the castle clock ticked. From tourism you can still see the lights of the terrace, and I still remember watching people eating ice cream, soup or pastries. The pastries, which I still persistently buy at the pastry shop "Zagoria" here in Myslym Shyri. It seems to me that I always buy a little childhood, a little taste of mother Nezo who used to take me on tours "without anyone noticing, kallogreee".

In that house, time stops. The clock no longer shows seconds and minutes, but quiet breaths of the life I left behind. The bedspread with crocheted covers on it, the curtains with pictures of birds, the closet in the corner looks untouched, the mirror with the signs of time or wildness still there, as if they had been waiting for years for me to come back.

Every night, when my dreams lead me to that no longer the same shelter, I walk noiselessly and feel as if I am talking with the shadows of my childhood, with the ghosts of former desires, with those dreams that huddled under its roof, in anticipation of eternal to flourish.

It's a wonder how everything can still be so vivid in dreams.

The mother's words still ring in front of the laid dinner, as she removed the part from whoever was missing from the table. "I don't love the other, but I keep the part", always the same. Amazing how the man about whom this expression was always said, never followed any of the mother's principles. "Let it be, kromoshkilari", Nezua would say and open the way again, as did those who loved him so much.

There are places that, although abandoned by the desire to approach them, remain eternally whole in our souls. The old house is one of them. And there, I will always be a child running after dreams that never die. It's as if every threshold, every wall, every audible scratch holds a mother's saying, hidden just for me. Those walls stand as silent witnesses of my growing up, of the endless kisses my grandparents put me to sleep, of the open laughter that hummed in the yard. And I, even at a distance, feel closer to myself when I am in the house of my dreams, held by the warm hand of memory. Therefore, even dreams take us to where our heart beat sweetest.


Në përputhje me standarded JTI

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