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Quiet Flows the Una
run back to the house for
my fishing rod and tackle.
The pleasure of outwitting
and struggling with a fish
so preoccupied me that I
wouldn’t notice when night
fell. By the time I became
aware of the crickets and the
warmth streaming along the
bank, bending the herbs and
grasses and flowing between
my legs, the full moon would
have cast anchor above the
water. The sounds of that
riverine microcosm were
a cradle for indescribable
happiness and deep dreams
in my Grandmother’s house.
Grandmother
G
randmother
Emina
loved Comrade Tito,
an atheist, although
she was a devout Muslim and
prayed five times a day. Her
husband abandoned her and
the three children she gave
birth to in the railway tunnels
where people hid from the
Allied aerial bombing raids.
The Second World War was
over, and he went off to Banja
Luka chasing the skirt of a
certain Jagoda, at least that’s
what family oral history said.
It was beyond her to hate
socialism,
although
the
Partisans
had
executed
two of her relatives under
the dubious accusation of