Trafika Europe 3 - Latvian Sojourn

dashed to her, springing up and down as I ran. Jausma stayed far behind. She wasn’t in the habit of running to Mama. She also already only said, “Made.” I had never heard her say “Mama.” “She can’t be a mama to Jausma at all. She’s too young,” said Arvīds all-knowingly. We were in his house, in the well-lit central room, a round and tall vase in the middle of the table, lush peonies drooping around its edges. He glanced at my pointer finger, which followed the alphabet. Arvīds diligently readied me for the beginning of school. He wrestled with my heavy head, which could not collect the letters together so they would come to light as ready-made words.

“Oh, la-nd-sss, ugh,” I murmured.

“Well, and together that would be…” Arvīds fidgeted in the creaking chair, and my head was ringing from putting the words together. The fly under the ventilation pane buzzed in the room. All the little letters hovered above it and knocked against the window pane.

“La-nd-scape. You’ll have to try again and again, until you can overcome it. You can’t give up.”

“Why can’t Mama be a mama for Jausma?”

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