My Dawn

By Snjezana Marinkovic

My grandmother, my Dawn, lived a life of struggle and conflict – many wars, torn families, and constant displacement. Her views helped shaped my understanding of the world and inspired me to be content with less. She taught me that it is possible to wish everyone well, even if our own lives are less than perfect and in total disarray. She also taught me that it is possible to love in that moment when we are the least loved.

Even when surrounded by ugliness, it is possible to keep beauty within. That’s how we give freely, effortlessly, and endlessly. That’s when it is no longer important if we are given anything in return. That's how my Dawn lived her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Snjezana Marinkovic
• Release date: Mar 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301629510

Snjezana Marinkovic

When I write, I am living my dream; when I make a living, I am dreaming of writing.

Book preview

Foreword

A woman embraced a little ball sitting on her lap. The most beautiful sign of giving, was her first thought. Through the window, light started opening its eyes and soon was curiously peeping inside the room. She stretched fully to the right, then a bit to the left as a smile started performing its daily exercise on her face. She was ready to leave all tiredness in the bed and breathe in the freshness of a new day. As soon as she stood up, her eyes slid down to her lap again. The ball was still there, but slightly elevated and at the same time it streamed a little through the air. At first sight, it reminded her of a moonwalker. Even so, there was no doubt that it had been safely glued to the warmth of mother’s body.

It’s time to find those silly bunny slippers so we don’t get sick, and I suppose I should make some food for these two hungry mouths, she said with a sigh. She quickly scoured the wooden floor as she walked towards the kitchen door.

At ten in the afternoon she left her apartment and drove to the nearby park. There were so many things she needed to learn about kids, and her decision was to begin her life-long lesson by watching them in a mission that fitted them best; play.

He parked his eighteen-wheeler at the gas station. The truck lights protruded out into the dusk, before he turned them off. He couldn’t ignore the fatigue he felt down in his bones any longer. He hadn’t slept for the past forty-eight hours, and most of that time was spent behind the wheel. Since morning, he couldn’t eat anything and didn’t even think about food. All he needed was another pack of Marlboro’s, and more miles away from home and her. He didn’t want children with this woman. She was the enemy.

Fifty-four years back in time, thousands of miles, and the whole Atlantic Ocean away from him was a woman sitting in the park, enjoying the music of children’s laughter. One of the things that connected them was the fact that she had a husband who loved her, in the same way he loved the woman who waited now for him at their home.

Mother, look at these kids. They are so beautiful and happy. I wish I was like them, carefree and elated. My husband is no longer good to me like he used to be. He’s changed. I just hope that things will be better between us when this baby is born. I pray that he wants to be a parent as much as I do. Once he holds this baby in his arms, he will probably do everything to be a different man. He will probably do his best to be a good father. Perhaps, every little piece of ice around his heart will start to melt. I want us to be closer. Especially now, because I need him to be there for me, and this kid deserves to grow up in a happy and loving family. He is going to be the father, he has to care. He should.

Her hands gently caressed the warm, little mountain of her pregnant belly, and instantly she could feel that each touch was answered. Instead of finding herself hitting undiscovered walls, she ended up swimming in a sea of emotions as pure as crystal-clear drops, as endless as open water.

My dear daughter: women are very strong creatures. What we are able to survive may seem impossible, even to us. Sometimes we receive so little, though we give so much. But we are built just for that. Like those skyscrapers, they look as though they are almost touching the sky, but in fact, they are far from it. They look so tall because they are equipped and ornamented with shiny windows, elevators, many doors, and many rooms, but it is often ignored how much more vulnerable they are in the world when compared to those small buildings. We are strong and used to hiding our grief. That’s how a woman’s heart operates, to give more love than it receives. So, these kids we are watching now in this playground are the proof that our love is continuous. Don’t worry. Everything will find the place where it belongs. Hold your head high and everything will be okay. You should love your life now more than ever before. Be happy. There are many women out there who wish they could have children, but aren’t able. There are women who watch their children struggle and die. There are women who carry unwanted babies inside their wombs. There are women who carry babies inside their wombs who will never get the God-given opportunity to be born. You will be a mother soon. I am looking at your eyes now, and they are filled with tears, but try not to think of those tears as a product of pain or fear. Instead, think of them as pure love. You have a reason to feel joy so be happy, my child.

He was in his truck, smoking like a chimney. This time, he was driving back home. Through the slightly open window, cold wind was reaching every little wrinkle on his forehead. He had been trying his best to avoid his racing thoughts. The road was pretty busy, and he couldn’t risk the semi, the biggest legal weapon on the highway, losing its way. He knew that he didn’t want to see her, but he tried to occupy himself with the little clouds of nicotine that surrounded him and the loud music and the voices coming from the radio. He may be tempted to hurt her again, but lately he tried to restrain himself from any kind of violence at home. He was even proud of himself for managing to stay away from any kind of argument or fight for the past three months. Still, he couldn’t change how he felt about her heritage – Serbian Orthodox mixed with Islamic. He almost despised both sides equally. He hated the circumstances and even more, he was afraid that he would be stuck with them for the rest of his life. He was in a Serbian war camp for a long time, and he should have known better before getting involved with this woman. They are all the same. They like to make others suffer. Those stupid fighters who are trying to conquer everything they can.

Now she was trying to conquer his heart. She would be better to forget it. With this pregnancy, she had reached an indestructible wall. The whole relationship was clearly one of the biggest mistakes in his life, and now was the time to close the door on hell. He can’t stay, especially not now, not when she has decided to keep the child. This woman and a life with her was more than he could handle. He couldn’t help it. Now and then he had to push her away, just so she would disappear and go somewhere far away from him. Sometimes he has to stand above her body on the floor and watch it move around like a fish in a dry river. He has to use any possible means to defeat that different, opposing side in her. Even slapping, pushing, and hitting are not enough. Sometimes he has to kick hard enough so she gets to the point of losing consciousness. He doesn’t enjoy doing these things to her, but he has to do what is necessary. And now, there would be another pair of eyes to watch all this.

He has to tell her that he is not ready for this, and he must do it as soon as possible. This time there is no time for procrastinating. No more delays. Things cannot be changed. He cannot change. Why should he? She remains the same. Her mind is behind the traitors’ lines that he doesn’t want to cross ever again. Those hands of hers are too cold, like those of the soldiers who captured him in the camp. She will always be his enemy. No matter what she says or what she does she cannot be trusted. He has to find the courage to let her know how he feels about everything. She has to listen, otherwise…

Exactly six years after the end of World War II, a mother and her daughter were walking back home from the park. The younger woman’s thoughts raced through memories of her almost two-year marriage. She loved this man, but she was not happy with him. He caused more bruises and more tears than she was willing to admit to her mother, to her friends, and even to herself. She hoped he would change. Maybe her love would direct him in a different direction. She will do anything to keep her family together. Yes, she will be a mother soon. She has a good reason to feel overjoyed and happy. Her mother was right when she said that. A touch of a smile warmed her face. She moved closer to the elderly woman, hugged her, and they continued walking on the path through the sunset.

Immediately after returning to her apartment, she knew he wouldn’t return from his long-distance-trucking trip for two days or so. Still, she decided that it would be better to put everything in order now, so she could enjoy a quiet evening home alone to rest. She was ready. She just needed to find those warm slippers and put them on her feet again. She looked around and took a deep breath. It was time to get busy.

Thousands of miles away from her and forty-four years ago, at night, contractions started.

Midwife is on her way, the elderly woman said.

Mother, I hope she finds the way in before the baby finds the way out, the young woman tried to joke, although the pain caused big drops of sweat to form on her forehead.

What is the date today, anyway?

It is October the 5th. My daughter, you will always remember this day and this year in 1951.

Half an hour later, in a little house at Dobrovoljacka Street, two women demanded from the third one more breath; another breath out. To keep pushing, pushing, pushing. The horrible pain pushed her voice to the top of her lungs from where it released a very long and piercing scream. Her eyes were collapsing under the weight of it. She did not notice that her lower lip was trapped under the bars of her upper teeth, nor the blood that mixed with her saliva. Sweat was pouring down her face. She collected every single ounce of her strength and pushed one more time. A child’s cry announced the new life.

Beautiful baby boy, her mother announced while reaching for the newborn. Her daughter’s face was ashen but waves of joy began splashing all the lifelessness away. She lifted her head from the pillow just enough so she could kiss her child. My bundle of love, she said softly. Little did she know then that her most precious gift of life was yet to be given, twenty-three years later on March 13, 1974 at 11:15a.m.

Another woman held tightly to her pregnant belly while swimming deep below the surface of a dream. Some strong pain made her body curl and prevented her from moving. The grip was strong and it continued pressing against her skin, harder and harder.

She opened her eyes. Trying to move was difficult, as her body was in a tight space of discomfort. She was still unaware that under her body a puddle of sweat was beginning to mix with blood.

A basin was placed on the shelf not far from the hospital bed. She stood up barefoot, and walked a couple of steps to reach for it and hold it in her hands. Inside of it was the best part of her that she wished she could preserve, but could not keep it from slipping away from existence. On that 1st day of October, in 2005, she was still unaware that this very part was already born, in the city called Sarajevo, some eighty years ago.

The story above happened between the years of 1951 and 2005. Today, it conveys the message of hope and belief, persistent belief that all of us have a special someone with whom we are connected long before we arrive in this world. This connection is simply the love that both sides are reaching for from the same energy level. Time, place, and circumstances have no influence on this type of bond. It is based only on two words: Always and Never. It is always hard to explain to others that it’s possible to have something with someone that will never break. Those two women were certainly fortunate to have this connection long before they even knew about each other. They were even more fortunate because in this vast world, they actually received the opportunity to meet and share their lives with one another. As you have already read, one of these women lost her child; another one gave birth to a baby boy. In fact, this boy would bring them together, so they could discover that their hearts were born in a different time but were made in that special order to remain forever inseparable.

How do I know this?

Because one of them is me, and the other one is my Dawn.

Grandmother

How close have you ever been to dying? I have touched death many times and on many different occasions throughout my life. In war, in the hospital bed, in abusive relationships, and in a number of wide-awake dreams created by life where I could only watch myself falling, and where there was nobody around to catch me. But for me, that was a quick death. I didn’t have much time to be afraid, to think, or even to realize that I could be erased from the big picture of this world. In those moments when fear and sad thoughts were able to squeeze in, at least I could stand there and watch my own steps disappear. I was not left in the shadow of dying. That was much different from this life eraser that I watch performing its task, and that I am experiencing right now. Observing with my heart rather than with my eyes the one I love the most becoming dead weight, dead talk, on the road to a dead end. But together we still carry this weight, together we consolidate our words, and together we are now and then able to take a step back. Now and then we don’t move. Now and then we listen to all kinds of noises in the night, and we extend our hands through the air and squeeze our smiles between every moment crossed by a deep sigh.

I was seventeen years old when a commentator, Milka Figuric, read my poetry on