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Every year there are fewer of us at the table.
Once the table felt too small for everyone, and today it feels too big. I look at it in the attic living room — a walnut table, forty years old, still defying time. As if it quietly mocks all of us, especially those who once sat around it and are long gone.
The chairs are loose now, reupholstered more than once, but still standing. As if they are waiting for people to return.
It feels like yesterday.
Today I sit at that table as a grown man, but once I sat there as a five-year-old boy.My late uncle Mateja taught me how to wiggle my ears there. He sat across from me laughing while I tried to copy him. Somehow he succeeded — today I wiggle my ears for children, big and small, passing on that little hidden treasure called a smile.
I remember another uncle, Aleksandar, the one my son was named after. He used to come early from the market, sit at this same table and secretly drink coffee before going home where my aunt was waiting. He treated us like a second family. Always helping. Always present. And in his left pocket there was always eurocream for me and his grandson. We knew it the moment we saw him.
This house, among many others in the city, is really his monument. Sadly, he never lived to see the roof finished. He passed away practically on our stairs, near the telephone.
I remember my mother kneading dough on that same table, flour everywhere. Cakes, doughnuts, Christmas bread, homemade bread and all kinds of treats were made there. My parents bought that table together with their first salaries. I guard it jealously, like something that must remain forever.
I remember birthdays. Blowing out candles, tables full of food, tired but happy guests — relatives, friends,neighbours.
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I remember writing my first letters there with my mother. Later, drawing pictures that even won school exhibition awards.
I remember New Year’s Eves and Christmas mornings. Those carefree moments when my aunts would suddenly appear with gifts and surprise us children.
I remember an uncle arriving drunk one night, pushing his bicycle beside the dog. He had just discovered his wife was cheating on him with a doctor, while he was “only” a construction worker. My mother quietly slipped a whole jar of homemade jam into his jacket pocket to sweeten his sadness.
I remember winter pig slaughters. The table full of meat, cracklings, sausages, ham and bacon. Snow falling outside, the fire crackling, chimney smoke drifting around the house and stinging our eyes.
From the back of my mind comes another memory — my first night out at the Viva disco downtown. Back then fights were fair: chest to chest, one on one, usually over someone’s girlfriend. Those same girls were later invited to dance… and some of them later sat at this very table. A few even broke my heart there.
I remember my first young-man tears. First drunken nights. Falling asleep at the table on those shaky chairs.
I remember…
And while writing this, my heart beats faster, like a man hooked to a lie detector.
That time is gone.
The village life inside a city. Waking up to an old tube radio from 1980 and hearing the voice say: “Radio Belgrade, first program.”
What remains are occasional gatherings. My childhood godfather. A few special people who look at you and instantly understand what you meant.
Photo by Dusan Stojkov
Everything else becomes less important with time.
In the end, only what the heart once dreamed remains.
Because those are the things that truly happened.
On Serbian:
Sećanja za stolom od oraha
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Svake godine nas je sve manje za stolom.
Nekada je taj sto bio mali za sve nas, a danas je prevelik. Gledam ga u dnevnoj sobi u potkrovlju — drveni sto od oraha, star četrdeset godina. I dalje prkosi zubu vremena. Kao da se ruga svima nama, a posebno onima koji su za njim sedeli, a kojih odavno nema.
Stolice su odavno rasklimane, presvlačene više puta, ali još stoje. Kao da čekaju da se ljudi vrate.
Kao da je juče bilo.
Sedim sada za tim stolom, a nekada sam za njim sedeo kao petogodišnjak. Tada me je pokojni teča Mateja učio da mrdam ušima. Sedeo je preko puta mene i smejao se dok sam pokušavao da ponovim pokret. I uspelo mu je — danas mrdam ušima pred decom, velikom i malom, i prenosim im to malo skriveno blago zvano osmeh.
Sećam se i drugog teče, Aleksandra, po kome je moj sin dobio ime. Dolazio je rano ujutru sa pijace, sedao za isti ovaj sto i krišom pio kafu dok ga tetka čeka kod kuće. Nas je smatrao drugom porodicom. Uvek je pomagao, uvek bio tu. A za mene i njegovog unuka u levom džepu uvek je bio eurokrem. Znali smo to čim ga ugledamo.
Ova kuća između ostalih kuća u gradu zapravo je njegov spomenik. Nažalost, nije dočekao ni da vidi krov postavljen. Preminuo je praktično na našim stepenicama, kod telefona.
Sećam se majke kako mesi kifle na tom istom stolu. Sto je bio pun brašna. Tu su nastajale torte, krofne, česnice, domaći hleb i sve one đakonije koje su okupljale porodicu. Taj sto su otac i majka kupili od svojih prvih plata. Zato ga čuvam ljubomorno, kao nešto što mora ostati zauvek.
Sećam se i svojih rođendana. Duvanja svećica, torti, prepunog stola i umornih ali srećnih gostiju — rođaka, prijatelja, komšija.
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Sećam se prvih slova koje sam pisao sa majkom upravo tu. Kasnije i svojih crteža koji su osvajali nagrade na školskim izložbama.
Sećam se i novih godina i Božića. Onog posebnog, bezbrižnog vremena. Kada bi obe pokojne tetke znale da banu iznenada sa poklonima i obraduju nas decu.
Sećam se i ujaka koji je jedne večeri pijan došao biciklom do naše kuće, gurajući ga pored psa. Bio je nesrećan jer je saznao da ga žena vara sa doktorom, a on je bio samo građevinar. Majka mu je tada u džep jakne spakovala čitavu teglu domaćeg pekmeza da malo zasladi tugu.
Sećam se i svinjokolja. Sto pun mesa, topljenih čvaraka, kobasica, šunki i slanine. Napolju su padale pahulje, vatra je pucketala, dim se spuštao oko kuće i štipao za oči.
Negde iz malog mozga izroni i sećanje na moj prvi izlazak u diskoteku Viva u centru grada. Tamo su se tada vodile fer tuče — prsnica na prsnice, jedan na jedan — obično zbog tuđe devojke. Te iste devojke su se posle pozivale na ples, a neke su kasnije sedale za ovaj isti sto. Neke su i slomile srce upravo ovde.
Sećam se prvih momačkih suza. Prvih pijanstava. Spavanja za stolom na tim klimavim stolicama.
Sećam se…
I dok pišem ovo, srce udara sve jače, kao osuđenik pred poligrafom.
Tog vremena više nema.
Onog seoskog života u urbanom gradu. Buđenja uz radio-lampaš iz 1980. i glas sa radija koji kaže: „Radio Beograd, prvi program.“
Ostala su samo povremena okupljanja. Kum sa kojim sam odrastao. Još poneki poseban čovek koji te pogleda i odmah razume šta si hteo da kažeš.
Photo by Dusan Stojkov
Sve ostalo s godinama postaje manje važno.
Na kraju ostane samo ono što se srcu snilo.
I što mu je bilo blisko.
Jer to se nekada davno zaista i dogodilo.
