Nostalgia

There's few things that being an immigrant mean. One is that you're far from home. You get homesick. You feel lonely. You hang onto memories like they will disappear. Like those flowers your husband gave you for your anniversary that are still sitting on the table in your favorite vase. Wilting. But there. A reminder of the lovely moments you treasured.

This morning I woke up to two emails. One from the wonderful publisher in Bulgaria who had interviewed me. Me in English, she in Bulgarian. Saying that there's some article up online. Needless to say it wasn't just up at one place (their blog) but everywhere and quite embarrassingly says some "funny" things. Things get lost in translation, I guess. But, it was still amazing to see. But that same email said that the interview will be in the Bulgarian newspaper. THE Bulgarian newspaper.

That same newspaper I stole from my grandpa after breakfast only to sit and pretend to read it. That same newspaper that I would see in newsstands lining the bazaar streets. The bazaar that my grandpa sold his few vegetables. That same newspaper we used to wrap our fragile belonging when we moved here to the states.

The other email was from a nice lady from the national Bulgarian radio. That one got a face like this ... 0_o .....

I am torn and broken over this one. It's sad to me to be on the same radio that I woke up to each morning in my grandparents' apartment. The apartment that I shared with my family, grandparents and cousin. And cousins sometimes. That same radio I remember as being loud and important but boring at the same time. (What 6 year old would want to listen to the news?) But that same radio played the few children's songs and I valued it for the few moments of childhood I can coax out of the box on the wall. But it's even sadder that my Bulgarian has been SO lost and broken that, although I can understand, I'll need a translator or else I might fumble through words. Just words. It will be a puzzle that needs to be put together and one with missing pieces.

But as these emails came and went and as I emailed my Dad who's currently there I realized that I miss it terribly. It's been 4 years since I've been there. And as my Dad emailed back saying "Just DO IT! I'm so proud of you!" I couldn't help breaking out the waterworks. Despite his small reminder to "not forget who taught you!"