At Grandma’s in the countryside.

At Grandma’s in the countryside,
Where summer days for visiting grandchildren are sweeter than freshly spun linden honey.
Where, from the faces of berries ripened in the garden, rainbow-like smiles barely manage to tumble out.
Where, after a day full of adventures, once spotless “little palms” become streaked like zebra stripes…

Lives Grandpa.
His fingers are big.
Hands roughened by work.
“And yet”…

“Look, Mom, how perfectly he painted my nails,” Pa holds out her little hand, kissed by the village sun.
And on top, she sprinkled glitter so it would last longer, adds the granddaughter, just back from her beauty routine.
I look at those little fingers.
At the tiny nail polish bottle.
At the flour-fine glitter.
And at Grandpa’s big hands. His roughened fingers.
And at the large, kind eyes shining with happiness.

And a thought enters my mind and settles there comfortably:
Long live Grandparents.
They are the best thing that could have happened to grandchildren,
Experiencing SUCH SUMMERS.
At Grandma’s in the countryside.

V.