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Faruk Šehić
Refugees
G
randma Delva is a
purple bird with clean,
soft plumage. She
walks tiredly, with a rolling
gait, on our way home through
Žitarnica. I take care not to trip
her with my foot as she shifts
her weight from one leg to the
other, and I’m scared that the
neighbourhood dogs and cats
could dash up and pounce on
the purple bird that talks.
I ask her if she’s afraid of dogs
and cats.
‘I’m too old to be afraid of
anything,’ Grandma Delva
says and waddles on, the sun
shining through her feathers
like a comb through hair.
Now we’re right in front
of Grandma’s house. The
front door is overhung with
Mediterranean plants, some
hardy, others luscious. Even
now, that green rampart
protects the three or four
stone steps that lead up into
the air, surrounded by black
walls with weeds growing
at acrobatic angles. Already
during the war we noticed
a new type of house that
has a convertible-style roof.