Where Strawberries Grow, Memories Appear

Summer holidays at my grandfather’s place were always magical. Today, with the perspective of time, I see it even more clearly. I felt like one of the children from The Children of Noisy Village (Dzieci z Bullerbyn – I actually prefer the Polish title; it sounds warmer, closer). – free, happy, surrounded by simple joys.

I remember getting off at the small train station in Piechcin. The sun was already warm, and with my backpack and a smile, I marched cheerfully toward my grandfather’s house. He was always waiting. And with him – strawberries. Not just any strawberries. His – from the garden. Red, fragrant, juicy. They tasted like summer. Like childhood. They’ve stayed with me forever. My grandfather is no longer here, but the memories remain.

Every time I eat strawberries, I return to those moments. I see myself as a little boy, sitting on a bench with my legs in the grass. Grandpa used to call me Kamosa. To this day, I don’t really know why. It’s just a kind of weed. But I liked it. I remember it like it was yesterday.

It’s strange how small gestures, scents, and words stay with us. Sometimes, all it takes is one strawberry to return to a place that no longer exists.