2020. december 20., vasárnap

My Father is Building a Tent

In memory of my father

Translated by my sisters, Anna Golson and Emma Majoros
You can read the tale in Hungarian here

The sun has barely risen, the morning breeze has barely stretched when my father asked if I would like to go with him. I sat on his lap and nestled there for a bit. I rubbed the dreams out of my eyes and caressed his arm. The hairs on his arm were like soft grass. I loved using my fingers to take steps and pretend I'm walking in the meadows.
– Where are you going?
– To build a tent.
We went out to the field together. He sat down on the ground, but he didn’t cross his legs like my mother, uncle, friend, or I would do, instead, he folded them by his sides, like a double-u. I chased butterflies, caught grasshoppers, and picked flowers. He looked around, listened, and hummed. Then we went home.