by Innan Sasaki
The first wild rose of the summer has bloomed. It is early May. The wild pink roses are resilient if fragile, modest but charming and, like the people here, tough.
I arrive early in the morning. The city is quiet and cold. The morning traffic hasn’t yet started. I wait for the bus in front of the country’s best girl’s secondary school. A three-storey historic building, its walls and roofs are white but window frames and edges brown, giving off the appearance if it being a castle. I smile. The air has cleansed my mind and I take renewed pride in my hometown.
After 20 minutes of strenuous waiting the bus finally arrives. I get in and buy a ticket. At three euros, its price has gone up by 50 cents since I was here last. As the bus departs, the vast lake surrounding the city comes into view. It is at least five times larger than all the other lakes in all the country combined with water bluer the cloudless sky above. Pine trees grow on rocks. Fishermen have started their day’s work. Everything exactly like it was one year ago.
A steep climb to my grandparents’ house awaits as I get off the bus. They live on a hill. The view alone is worth the challenge. The city centre below, while small, features dozens of identical buildings at least five stories tall and black roofs, except for one building. It has a red roof and is home to my favourite bakery.
My grandparents live right next to the town’s only Michelin-star restaurant. As I ring the doorbell, I can smell the food they have started to prepare at the restaurant. My mother opens the door, followed by my grandmother, both happy to see me. Her cheeks are red from excitement after almost a year of not seeing me. I notice Easter eggs hanging from the chandelier in hallway and, whispering, ask my mother why the eggs are here given Easter is long gone. She tells me that “mummi” doesn’t want to get rid of them. She thinks them pretty.
I quickly go to wash my hands before greeting my grandfather. Would I like a boiled egg for breakfast, my mother asks.
My grandfather is sitting at the top of the dining table. I walk up to kiss his cheek. He smiles with tearful eyes, saying “my little rose is back home.” He has always called my mother and her daughters his little roses.
He points to the lake and says the wind is mild today. It is excellent sailing weather, and we should go sailing as soon as we finish breakfast. Although tired from the trip, I was prepared for his suggestion. I reply I am readier than ever. I have been practising sailing with my university friends. He says that the wind is strong today. I tell him I can handle it.
As we sail across the lake, the golden monastery catches my eye. I call it the golden monastery because, although most of the outside of the building is white, inside it’s all gold. The icons, the monk’s robes, and the crosses dazzle in gold. Thousands of monks live on the island, keeping the area tidy. Even if one is not religious, it is hard to deny its majestic presence. It is also the city’s no. 1 tourist destination in the summertime.
As we view the city, grandfather quietly says it is a miracle how well the town has been preserved after the war. The city has the country’s best schools and the largest academy, training hundreds of future primary and secondary school teachers each year. It also hosts the country’s largest music festivals, and the museums are filled with the finest art pieces of the country. The huge bridge connecting the city centre with the academy stands proud while countryside barns are kept clean and the farmland is well-taken care.
We stop chatting as we sail along the war veteran’s graveyard where many of my grandfather’s friends lie. They fought together for seven years, from a submarine. Surrounded by lush green meadows, the graveyard is exceptionally well cared for.
The lake reflects the intense sun and I’m grateful for the warmth it brings. Spring has finally arrived in these Northern lands and for a moment it feels as if all my worries have disappeared.
The next day, my sister joins us at our grandparents’ house where we enjoy cloudberry cake and raspberry juice prepared by my mother for the occasion. Today’s the start of the town’s long-awaited annual music festival. My mother says she doesn’t want to go seeing as she hates big crowds.
Walking down the hill, we join an enthusiastic mass of people crossing the bridge from the city centre to the concert area of the town. The women wear colourful flower dresses – the most popular colour being a reddish orange – and my sister points out that even those without dresses wear either bright pink or orange shirts or scarves. I have got to buy myself one of these dresses before leaving town.
We spot our uncle. He’s exceptionally well dressed in a stylish black and white striped shirt, grey jacket and black trousers. Our cousin is about the same age as my sister and me and in a bright national dress. My sister and I admire her natural beauty. My grandmother’s best friend has come along too, with daughter, wearing the same kind of dress and glasses. Although their flower dresses were blue, her daughter made sure to wear a bright red cardigan with a matching red neckless. Even the mayor of the city is here today.
A group of elderly female artists sing and dance, jumping joyfully around the stage, their singing too quick for anyone to catch the lyrics yet able somehow to remove sorrow and worry and sickness, or so is the belief of many of those listening.
As we walk back from the concert along a street lined with birch trees, I too feel cured of all the pain and worries from work, recharged and ready to leave my hometown and return, alone, to my home-away-from-home in a university town far away. I say my goodbyes. They say theirs.
I do not know then that I will never again share their experience of joy. That I will never again be set free by their music. That the next time I visit, the city will be a ruin. That farmhouses will fall and rot. That my grandfather’s yacht will go up in flames. That the lake will no longer be ours.
That life as it once was will be no more.