Ana Toader

On my father’s side, I am of the long flat plains around Bucharest. Plains running endlessly against the horizon and so much sky above them, drowning our little forms.

Plains burnt by summer sun, plains of yellow and white little flowers, as unassuming as some part of my heart is.

And every once in a while poppies like mouths.

“Je n’ai pas peur de la route
Faudrait voir, faut qu’on y goûte
Des méandres au creux des reins
Et tout ira bien là
Le vent nous portera” - Noir Desir, Le Vent Nous Portera lyrics

We used to ride the car to the country side as children, through hot plains and poor towns, my thighs sticking to the plastic covers of the car seats. Ducking each time we passed by the police because we were too many in the car. Our silly little communist clothes of touching aesthetics.

People of the plains are poorer and darker; they eat lighter things and have tongues dipped in satire, unlike the people of the mountains. I was the child of Germanic Slavic features that ate fruit and played in the dust covering the village in the plains.

And thick happiness like honey, like sun, filling every whole of my being until I was full.