The Van Life

By Vic Naimanowska

 

She feels so good. The wind is not a wind but a tender breeze in her hair. The sun is bright but not hot yet, not for another hour or so. It is as fresh and fragile as only the dawn could be, spreading pink water color clouds around her.

The sky seems so close and soft that it reflects in the water and mixes with it. She is standing there knee-deep in the dew pond, and it is not hard to believe that she is standing on the pink, rosy skies. “I could stay here for hours”, she catches her thought, but then she nods and goes away.

Slowly, with a dripping skirt of her summer dress, leaving traces of green mud from the bottom of the pond and little pools in her footsteps. She doesn’t go far–the tiny wooden pier waits for her and offers a basket of goods.

She opens it and then closes it again, catching another thought. She is determined and happy, dangling her legs on the water's surface to wash off the remaining dirt.

She feels so good. The air in the little hut is stiff and warm; it reminds her of her childhood at grandma’s. She stands outside, waiting, and every little detail opens to her. The hut is little, but the land is large – it goes far on each side.

The land smells like Nature’s home, the farm is loud–alive. She touches ripe grapes, and one slips into her mouth almost unexpectedly and causes a moment of pure joy. She thinks about grapes and the sun, and hot whole milk with honey, or watermelons crushed with basil and ice.

She knows how easy it is to get summer, to understand it when you keep attention when you are willing to experience it. Another grape is being chewed and swallowed slowly, the wind is stronger, and it brings flowers and reminders of the dew pond. She feels how her stomach growls, and the woman hears it too.

“What is in that basket of yours? Not a food, I presume?”

She laughs and says, “It is food, actually.”

“What are you waiting for, then?”

“For eggs.”

“Ah.”

The woman smiles and gives another basket, a small hand-woven basket full of eggs from the farm.

“Ah”, the woman says again, “Do you ever eat? Skins and bones.”

“Sometimes I do.”, she laughs happily and hugs a woman. She feels grateful. She feels so good when she goes to the edge of the farm, and a little dog is chasing her almost all the way. She hears suddenly:

“Will I ever see you again?”

“We have to ask the wind!”

The woman sighs, ‘What a silly child’, but her eyes glimmer with a laugh.

She feels better than good. The sky went stormy and heavy rain was dancing on the roof of her van. But the warmth was steady inside, and she looked around proudly. Coziness, safety, home.

A red cat named Pillow was purring at her side. The breakfast was good and the smell of fried eggs, strawberries and strong coffee was still present when she woke up after her nap. The road was clean and clear, it was calling her again. The wind has spoken, and she turned a key to wake up the van.

“I hear the drums echoing tonight. But she hears only whispers of some quiet conversation”

The alarm pulls her out. The van disappears along with the eggs, the farm, and the misty dew pond. The woman is gone, and the wind is quiet, her rented apartment looks vividly strange–alien. Everything is gone but her red-fluffed Pillow purring at her side. Still. The weather is good, but the clouds are gathering in her mind.

“She's coming in, 12:30 flight

The moonlit wings reflect the stars that guide me towards salvation.”

She is sleepy and lost, her favorite song still doesn’t annoy her. It was not a mistake to make it an alarm. A snooze button is sweet, but she stands up. She walks barefoot on the cold floor, it is marble after all.

She is not trembling, she is calm and bright when she writes a letter and closes her laptop, turns off her phone, shutting Toto on “Gonna take some time to do the things we never had”. The line stays with her when she crawls back in bed. She hugs the cat.

“Let’s be quiet so we don’t miss when the wind speaks.”

She thinks she can smell watermelons crushed with basil and ice. She feels so good.

 

Victoria Naimanowska (Yurchenko) is a Ukrainian writer based in Vienna, Austria. Her poetry, short stories, and tales for children are published in Ukrainian publishing houses Bright Star and Ranok.